


Strangers Again

by JeanZedlav



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Essos, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Multi, NaNoWriMo, No Beta - we die like Jon Snow, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Rebirth, Resurrection, post season eight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-01-27 03:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 68
Words: 136,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanZedlav/pseuds/JeanZedlav
Summary: Daenerys dies Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with her lover's dagger in her heart. She wakes a Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea with her children in her arms.An indulgent Dany-centric fic. Basically a Season 2+ rewrite if Dany was the main character. Safe for fans of Starks, Baratheons, and Lannisters (as safe as any GOT fic can be, I suppose). No Jonsa/Jonerys.
Relationships: Ellaria Sand/Daenerys Targaryen, Oberyn Martell/Daenerys Targaryen, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand
Comments: 1034
Kudos: 695





	1. The Flames

**Author's Note:**

> And suddenly, we were strangers again.

Once, when she lay beside Jon Snow in her great wooden bed, naked as her nameday, head pillowed on his chest, she had asked him what life was like after death. He had gone very still, the hand that was settled into her hair tightening. “Nothing,” he had said, “there was nothing at all.” That was all he had said, and then he turned away from her and pretended to sleep. 

They had never discussed it again.

And then she had taken the Iron Throne, with dragons and ashes, and fire and blood, and offered him a place beside her. In exchange he had put a dagger through her heart. The thought of Rhaegar, dead on the Trident, a single name on his lips, had flashed across her mind. Daenerys thought of Drogon, as the blackness and cold closed in.

Daenerys’ eyes open to smoke blotting out the stars high above the Great Grass Sea.

She stares, disbelieving. This must be a dream caused by her stress and wounds. Then she feels the heat of the flames and hears the crackle of the logs. Even the earth is smoking beneath her, but when she forces herself up she can see the shape of the pyre and the bones of the witch. Then she knows what this is. She had survived. Her guards must have arrested Jon, taken her to a maester or healer loyal to her. Long ago she had given up her life with the Dothraki, her husband and son dead, forced to flee into the Red Waste for her people to survive. No longer was she the girl that had been sold to Khal Drogo, who had loved him.

Around her the logs explode as the fire touches their hearts and the smoke reaches forty feet into the sky. And then she sees them, and her heart stops. Drogon comes first. He is tiny, so tiny that she can hardly believe this is the same great dragon who won her three wars and burnt a city to the ground. Daenerys stretches out a hand to touch his face, fingers trembling as they stroke his soft scales. Against the heat of her skin he trills, before he scrambles up her arm to drape himself across her shoulders. His claws are sharp against her skin, but the pain is nothing against the swelling of gratitude in her chest.

Rhaegal and Viserion are next, their slender necks visible first as they slink from the rubble of Drogo’s pyre. Tears well in her eyes, she can feel herself crying but the tears are seared away by the heat before they fall. Her children crawl into her arms, and she picks them up, one by one, turning them over to see the places where the bolts had struck now unharmed. Her breasts are heavy with milk for the son she burned, and again her children suckle at them as though she was their trueborn mother.

Jon Snow had once told her that he did not know his purpose when he woke. He had thought he should have been left dead, and abandoned his post on the Night’s Watch. It had not been until his sister convinced him to help take back their childhood home that he had roused from his state. Daenerys has no such concerns. She has no illusions that the masters would not rise in the Bay of Dragons once they heard of her death. Her plans for freeing the slaves of Essos and removing the ability of a monarch to so completely control Westeros are gone. 

All she has done has been torn away, victories and mistakes alike, but now she has a second chance. She will not waste this gift. Whatever gods or magic have returned her to her people will not have acted in vain.

Cradling her children against her chest, bathing in the happiness that encompasses her, Daenerys settles herself in the firestorm. Her silver hair crisps away and her clothes turn to ash. She cared nothing for them. 

When she had arrived in Astapor and commanded her Unsullied to free the slaves they had risen in revolt against their masters. It had been the same in Meereen and Yunkai. When given the chance the people of Essos fought for their freedom. In Westeros, Cersei Lannister blew up their Sept and killed their High Septon, and then they cowered against her gates out of their own bigotry. 

They did not deserve her mercy, were not worth her children falling from the sky shrieking or Missandei dying in chains. She had offered them kindness and protection, and they had given her hatred and distrust. Because of her gender. Because her people were not Westerosi. Because cowering in fear was safer than standing up to become something better.

When at last the fire dies and she can no longer block out the world, she stands. And, oh, the taste is sweet to see her people. Ser Jorah, who died to protect her, looks at her as if for the first time. His gaze sweeps over her children, and he falls to his knees. Aggo and Rakharo and Jhogo come up behind him, and Dany cannot stop the smile at the sight of them alive before her. Jhogo lays his arakh at her feet. “Blood of my blood.” He pushes his face into the earth. Rakharo and Aggo echo him, and then come her handmaidens, dead and alive again, and the others. 

Drogon hisses, pale smoke venting from his mouth and nostrils. His siblings lift their long necks to join their voices to his. Again the night comes alive with the music of her children for the first time in hundreds of years. Her khalasar is small, but they are the first of her people, and the weight of her responsibilities settle over her shoulders.

It is then that she knows what she will do.

Atop Drogon over Kings Landing, with the bells ringing in her ears, she had realized for the first time why Aegon the Conqueror had chosen ‘Fire and Blood’ for their house words. Why Aegon V had struggled so to reform the Seven Kingdoms that he had sought to birth dragons. Why Tyrion had turned on her when she sought to better the world. Why her dreams of a better world had caused her death.

But again she is Daenerys. 

Again she is a mother. 

A conqueror. 

A queen.


	2. The Great Khal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time she was here, she had been named a khal in her own right. The last time she was here, Viserys had died covered in molten gold.

Again the Horse Gate of Vaes Dothrak looms out of the rolling hills of the Great Grass Sea.

Dany’s silver carries her under the gate and down the godsway, her bloodriders gathered about her. The rest of her khalasar spreads about the city as they pass through, into the ancient monuments from the lands sacked by the Dothraki and into market. She has given the leave to spend the next several days as they wish, so long as they do not speak of Drogo’s pyre or her dragons. 

Many of them do not expect her to return, she knows, but until she is seen by the khals and is properly Dosh Khaleen they will obey her orders. They encountered several khalasars in their travels, but all had allowed them passage when they heard of their destination. And Daenerys does not wish to cross the Red Waste again just to avoid a few khals. Her bloodriders have advised her against entering the city, stating that she will never leave. Ser Jorah too had pleaded with her, as she left her crated dragons with him, to turn away from the city. 

Yet still they follow her.

As they enter, she takes a moment to look across the city. The last time she was here, she had been named a khal in her own right. The last time she was here, Viserys had died covered in molten gold.

It is Rakharo she has asked to lead her inside, trusting Aggo and Jhogo with the duty of watching her silver. Together they will keep her khalasar while she spends time with the women of the Dosh Khaleen. 

As they enter the hut, he stops her. “Khaleesi,” he says, “how will we know when to come to you?”

“You will know,” she promises. 

He looks uncertain, but nodded his agreement. She continues inside, alone. The oldest of the women meets her in the center of the room, fiery braisers surrounding her. Others gather around her. 

“We have heard that you are Khal Drogo’s widow.” The eldest of them says, in the tongue of the Dothraki.

“I am. He suffered a wound and fell from his horse. I burned his body.”

She smiled, and it did not reach her eyes. “It is said that Khal Drogo was wounded after you took the women of the Lamb Men as your own slaves, rather than allowing the men of the khalasar to have them.”

“It is true,” Dany does not match her smile, “Next, you will ask me if it is true that a witch woman tried to heal him, and instead cost me his life and that of my son. This is also true.”

“It is the duty of a khaleesi to follow her husband’s commands, to support him in times of battle, to bear his children and raise them well. But you were the cause of Drogo’s death.”

“I trusted the woman, and she killed my son,” Dany’s gaze does not waiver, “I burned her alive in his pyre.”

“You have avenged him, then. But still you must face what you have done to the khal. In two days time, there will be a Khalar Vezhven. They will decide which cities will be sacked and which tribes will be enslaved. They will also decide the fate of Khal Drogo’s silver-haired widow.”

Again Dany’s fate is with the Dosh Khaleen. But this time she does not need to hear their stories. She knows them. Their pasts, their successes and failures, those who loved their khal and those tormented by him. Now she must only show them who she is.

~oOo~

Again the khals meet, and again the khals die.

Again Daenerys is The Unburnt.

As she stands before her new khalasar, before the burning hut of the Khalar Vezhven, she catches sight of Ser Jorah and her bloodriders making their way through the people. It is not them that her gaze fixes on. From Ser Jorah’s shoulders comes Drogon, wings almost transparent as he flies to her, warbeling for his mother, and perches on her shoulders.

His song fills the night air, and, slowly, the Dothraki look up. She waits. This is the first dragon they have seen in hundreds of years, and even a glimpse of him is worth a hundred horses. She waits, until every eye is trained on the dragon on her shoulders, until she has their attention as well as their awe.

“This is where the Dosh Khaleen pronounced my child the Stallion Who Mounts the World. This is where Drogo promised to take his khalasar west to where the world ends. To ride wooden horses across the Black Salt Sea as no khal has done before. He promised to kill the men in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses. He swore to me before the Mother of Mountains.” Behind her, the hut burns. Smoke belches into the air and the timbers pop embers across her skin. Daenerys lifts her arm, Drogon clinging to her with needle-sharp claws. 

“Behold my son! The son of Khal Drogo! As swift as the wind he will be, and behind him his khalasar will cover the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm the prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name. The prince is riding! And he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.

“Behold, Drogon!”

“Drogon!” Aggo calls, raising his arakh.

“Drogon!” Rakharo shouts.

Then the cry goes up across the kneeling khalasar, chanting her son’s name. He screams, voice rising above theirs, and she lets them chant until Viserion and Rhaegal come flying to join their brother. They perch on her shoulders, as Drogon takes up her arm, and at the sight of them the volume of the crowd increases.

“I have killed the khals, and now you are my khalasar.” They quiet, respect shining from every person who stands before her. She is no longer Drogo’s foriegn widow, but a khal of the Dothraki. “I will ask more of you than any khal has ever asked of his khalasar! Will you ride the wooden horses across the black salt sea?”

The men raise their weapons, shouting their agreement. 

“Will you kill my enemies in their iron suits, and tear down their stone houses?”

The call is louder this time, as more get to their feet, as excitement runs through them. If there is anything that will rally the Dothraki it is the promise of a good fight.

“Will you give me the Seven Kingdoms? The gift Khal Drogo promised me for our son?”

Her children add their song to the Dothraki, and Dany’s gaze catches on the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen, staring up at her in fright and awe. She smiles, and the woman’s nods back; an understanding between them.

Again Dany raises her voice to be heard over the dragonsong. 

“Are you with me? Now and always?” 

The leader of the Dosh Khaleen stands. “Blood of my blood!” She calls through the cries of the warriors. They take up the words, swearing to her their loyalty.

Again her khalasar screams their praise across all of Vaes Dothraki.

Again Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo's.

Again the Great Grass Sea is hers.


	3. Khyzai Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys does not know the vows, but she knows he would die for her. He has already.

The Dothraki counted themselves as many as stars in the sky, but in truth there were near 150,000 warriors and 225,000 train alongside them. 

With such an army, Dany could have taken all three cities of Slaver’s Bay with ease. Yet as she rode south from Vaes Dothrak toward Slaver’s Bay she took only the 40,000 warriors who had been Drogo’s before his death. This was still some hundred thousand people, but her horde was still small enough to not ruin the countryside as they passed.

The remainder of the Dothraki had been divided into khalasars of their own accord, by fights between the greatest of the bloodriders. Dany had left them to settle this between themselves, giving only one order: that no slaves could be taken or traded.

She did not mean to return to them for several years, but she had no concerns about their loyalties. The Dosh Khaleen had come to an agreement with her, and would speak in her name in her absence. And when she returned it would be on Drogon’s back, and her son was greater than any mount among her people. She knew that eventually her commands against slaving would be challenged, but in a few years time Drogon would be grown.

For two weeks Dany had led them southward, and now they neared the edge of the Dothraki Sea and would soon come upon the red coastal desert where Slaver’s Bay lay. Astapor was the southernmost of the three cities, but Dany would stop there first. The Unsullied were excuse enough, but she longed to see Missandei again. Her Dothraki handmaidens were good company, and she was grateful for their return to her, but some nights when she closed her eyes she could still see the two parts of Missandei hit the ground. It was selfish, but she wanted to touch the Naathi woman again, to prove to herself that she was still alive.

When they stopped, shortly before dark, Dany gathered her bloodriders around the back of a cart on which she spread a map while her handmaidens set up her tent in the center of the camp and set out a meal of horseflesh. After the cold, dull food of Westeros peppers and horseflesh had become her favored meal. 

“How long will it take us to travel through Khyzai Pass?” She had never traveled this way through the Dothraki Sea. She had walked the long and treacherous path through the Red Waste, sailed across the Gulf of Grief, and flown this path on Drogon’s back, but never crossed on foot from the Dothraki Sea to Slaver’s Bay.

“Two days at most, khaleesi,” Ser Jorah answered. 

“One day, if we move quickly. We would camp just outside of the path,” Jhogo said. Her Dothraki had gone here before, driving slaves before them to sell in the markets of Slaver’s Bay. Now they would free them, but Dany had not told them this yet.

“Is it safe to do so?” 

“There are bandits in the mountains,” Rakharo replied, “but no one will not attack a khalasar of this size.”

“And after the pass, how long to Astapor?”

“Astapor, khaleesi?” Ser Jorah asked. “Meereen is the closest city.”

“Two weeks and a half, no longer,” Jhogo answered.

“What is there in Astapor that you desire?” Ser Jorah pressed.

“Two weeks, then. When we arrive in Astapor I want an audience with Kraznys mo Nakloz and his fellow slavers to speak of the Unsullied soldiers he sells.” Dany ordered. “As we come to Meereen and Yunkai I wish to leave part of the khalasar to wait for my return.”

Her bloodriders looked at each other. Jorah looked as though he wanted to speak, but held his tongue. Aggo protested, “It is not common for a khalasar to divide.”

“When I was Drogo’s khaleesi he sent Ko Pono to raid one village of the Lamb Men, while he took another.”

“Pono was Drogo’s ko, and he was given command only for a short time.” Jhogo said.

“And you are my bloodriders. Aggo, I wish you to remain outside of Meereen with 10,000 riders, and Jhogo, I wish you to wait outside of Yunkai with 10,000 more. The remainder of us will continue to Astapor.” Dany said. She knew it was unfair to Rakharo to deny him the chance to lead part of her khalasar, but she could not bring herself to let him go so far from her so soon. “Rakharo, will you send scouts to Astapor to arrange for a meeting?”

“I will.” He said.

Dany smiled, then turned to the others. “You are blood of my blood, and I only tell you this because I know you will keep my counsel. No one else is to know of this. I mean to take Slaver’s Bay as my own. Once I take Astapor, Yunkai will attempt to hire sellswords. Do not attack them, Jhogo, only meet them before the enter the gates and offer them our gold if they help us take the city. 

“What I ask of you, Aggo, is more delicate. You must prevent Meereen from burning any of the lands outside of their city. And if they make to crucify slaves outside of their gates you are to stop them by any means necessary.” She looked from one to the next. “I ask this of you because I trust you to make the best possible decisions. I want no unnecessary death.

“Are you sure this is wise, khaleesi?” Jorah asked. “You do not need Unsullied. The Dothraki are more than enough to take Westeros, if used properly.”

“Do you doubt my judgement, Ser?”

“No, khaleesi. Had you no men behind you I would advise purchasing every Unsullied you could find. Yet you have 150,000 men at your command, and many of them think you a god. There is no need for slave soldiers to take the Iron Throne.”

“You have ever served me well, Ser Jorah.” Indeed, in her last life it was her bear’s recommendation that she go to Astapor. She owed her life and armies to him, several times over. She changed to the Common Tongue, then, knowing her bloodriders would take no offense. “Now speak me true, before you served me you served the Usurper, Robert Baratheon.”

The knight’s face turned white, and he fell down to one knee sharply. Rakharo, the one best trained in the language of Westeros, shifted his hand to his weapon’s hilt. “Khaleesi, it was only at the start. Before I came to know you.”

“What did he promise?”

“Varys said… I might go home.” The knight bowed his head, unable to look upon her face.

“I am going to take you home,” Dany replied. The fury from her past life was not within her, despite the anger in her words. She could not look at her bear and not see him dying in Winterfell. 

“Once, khaleesi, you said that Viserys could not lead an army even if Drogo gave him one.” He paused, his voice rough. “You said he was never going to take us home.”

“But I am not Viserys.”

“But you are not Viserys.”

He was not wrong. Once Viserys had seemed to her a king, but now that she had lived the life of a ruler she knew that he was no Aegon the Conqueror. He was no dragon. He had neither the patience nor the courage, and indeed, he had died before setting foot on Westeros. The Dothraki would never have followed him, even on Drogo’s orders.

“Had you not reported to Baratheon the wineseller would not have tried to poison me-.” Dany mused.

“Khaleesi-”

“-but you saved my life that day.” 

“I wished no ill upon you. I was a fool to inform on you, yes, but once I came to know you I sent not a word to Westeros. I swear to you khaleesi, on my honor as a knight.” Jorah’s voice was hoarse, but Dany had no doubt he spoke truth. 

“Will you swear to me, then? On your honor as a knight?”

“Yes, khaleesi. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

“And I vow,” As she spoke, the knight stiffened, but said nothing. She knew that he had not expected her to know the words of the oath because he had taught them to her, long before Jon Snow plunged a dagger into her chest. “That you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jorah. First of my Queensguard.”

He stood, longsword in shaking hands. “Khaleesi-”

“I will hear no more apologies. What has been done has been done. Now we must look to the future,” Dany shifted back to Dothraki. “I mean to go to Astapor, and I mean to take all of their Unsullied. Eight thousand trained men, six centuries to be part of a ninth, and all the ones still in training as well.”

“It will take all the wealth of your khalasar.” Jorah said, his counsel wise even though he was still shaken.

“I will give them a dragon, for their Unsullied,” Daenerys replied. Ser Jorah drew in breath to speak, to protest, but she continued, “and when they give me the army I will have Astapor put to the sword. Human lives are not a currency I will deal in. Afterwards I will march to Yunkai, and then Meereen. We will stay in the Bay of Dragons until my children are grown.”

Her bloodriders became excited at the prospect of a fight, of conquest. Jorah looked at her as though he had never truly seen her face before. Dany smiled in return, voice mild. “Are you with me, my knight?”

“Now and always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re running distances off the horrifically scaled “Robert made it to Winterfell in one month while meandering.”
> 
> This implies that one could make it from Sunspear to Winterfell with a full army in two months, but at least Littlefinger has stopped teleporting.


	4. Astapor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will not let those I have freed slide back into chains.

Again Daenerys sees Astapor for the first time.

The city is as it was, yet not. It is still dusty and red, and forged from the blood of slaves, and still it sets her blood afire at the unjustice of it. Yet there is no Cleon the Butcher King, nor Cleon the Second, nor King Cutthroat and Queen Whore. There never will be, she swears. This time, Astapor is hers, now and forever.

Again the slavers trade all of their fighting men for one of the only three dragons in the great wide world. These men were, she had noticed, more respectful of a Khaleesi with a Dothraki khalasar 20,000 strong than of a girl with three borrowed ships and infant dragons. It did not save them. Again Drogon burns the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz and his companions with dragonfire, and again her Unsullied cut through the Good Masters of the city. 

Once Dany had taken her Unsullied and marched from Astapor, leaving only a council of three men. They had been overturned and executed not long after Dany had left for Meereen and Yunkai. Then she had been a young girl who believed that the freedmen would be enough to protect themselves, but a lifetime of slavery does not fall away so easily. Now she knows better.

Missandei had taken her to Kraznys’ pyramid, which she took as her own. Now, she sat in a hastily made throne in his great hall, a newly announced Grey Worm and his officers before her, and a number of frightened slaves beyond.

“Are you certain of their skills?” She asked softly, as Missandei approached her seat.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The Naathi woman confirmed, in the Common Tongue. “I have tested them all.”

“Grey Worm,” Dany spoke in Valyrian, drawing the attention of the room, “how many men would you need to take a pyramid from the Great Masters?”

“A single pyramid? Less than one thousand.”

“Send men to every pyramid in the city. Take the owners and turn them into the streets. Take all the gold within the pyramid and bring it to storage here. Bring me the records within the pyramids as well. Do this with as little fighting as possible.” She motioned to the freedmen waiting nearby. “I understand that all of you can read and write?”

“These ones can.” The woman who spoke had the dark skin of the Ghiscari, but her hair was a lovely brown.

“Each of you who goes with my Unsullied to gather these things I will pay a fair wage.”

It did not take much more than that to convince them. Within two days, each of the pyramids had been sacked and their wealth gathered under Dany’s feet. While the Good Masters had been turned out of their homes, she had the former slaves who kept the households running brought before her.

The first of these was a man named Dakhar. He was old and wrinkled, but so clever that his master had prospered under his guidance. Missandei spoke well of him, and that was enough to convince Dany of his usefulness.

“Dakhar, thank you for meeting with me.”

“The honor is this one’s.”

“I have something I wish to ask of you. If you can do this thing, I will pay you well.” The desert landscape of Slaver’s Bay lacked both natural resources and raw materials, one of the reasons they had turned to producing people. Personally, Dany found that to be uncreative and insulting. “I wish for the pyramids that now stand empty to be turned into a place where my freedmen can sleep. I will provide all the gold and labor you need for this, and they shall be allowed to stay without paying so long as they cause no trouble.”

“The pyramids of Astapor have many rooms. It will take time, but I will see it done.”

“In exchange for this, I will give you a fair day’s wage to watch over the other pyramids, and I will pay the same price again until the pyramid makes a profit for you. That is not all. I have sent my men to search for freedmen who have useful skills. Musicians or weavers or masons, and I would like a small number of the pyramids to be set up to teach others these skills.”

He shifted his cane to his other hand as he considered this. “It will not be easily done. Many of those with valuable skills are using them to survive.”

“I will pay them to be teachers,” Dany explained.

At this, Dakhar smiled. Several of his teeth were missing, but the light in his eyes told her that he was pleased with this plan. “I will begin immediately.” 

It took nearly four weeks to finish all that was needed in Astapor, and even then Dany was leaving much of the work to the council she had arranged. As well as paying her freedmen, she also used the gold to send for cedars and olive saplings and materials to improve irrigation systems, knowing she would soon have need of them.

It was not only gold she had taken, but also properties. These she distributed to the former slaves based on their skills. Farms were given to those who could farm them, forges to blacksmiths, and all of the pyramids were managed by those skilled at running households under Dakhar’s gaze. In time they would be given to those that proved themselves skilled at running them.

There had been a number of riots in the weeks she had spent there, but with the slaver’s gold and tokens gone they could not rally against her nearly so well as they had before. And this time Daenerys did not hesitate to send her Dothraki to put down any true resistance. A few even had relatives send for them, and Dany sold them for gold as they had once sold slaves. Others came to her with plans to help the city prosper, and she rewarded cleverness by allowing them to assist the freedmen in making it so. But never did she give them sole power.

Her efforts had not been quick, but their effects were powerful.

“These are the men, then?” She asks, in High Valyrian.

“Yes,” Grey Worm says, “Stalwart Shield is their officer.”

The name brings a smile to her lips. This man had died in Meereen, and now here he stood, ready to command one thousand of her Unsullied army. “Stalwart Shield, then. In two days time, I will march from Astapor north to Yunkai, where I will free the slaves and take the city. I mean to leave your men here to protect the council I have arranged to lead Astapor in my name.”

“We are honored to serve.”

She motions to the scribe at her side, who steps forward to look up at the Unsullied commander. “This is Kiez. She is a scribe who will work with the Unsullied alone to keep the peace in the city. She assisted in writing up the laws that I will leave the city under.”

Some part of Dany regrets not allowing Missandei to fill the role, but she cannot bear to leave her friend behind. Already she leaves part of her Unsullied and some small number of the Dothraki, but abandoning Missandei to this city of dust and blood is something she cannot bear.

Daenerys leaves Astapor as it’s queen.


	5. Yunkai I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys arrives outside Yunkai.

Her own camp at Yunkai is much the same.

Yet she is pleased that the second encampment that had once followed her to Yunkai, that of the scattered freedmen, of women and children and old men, had shrank to less than the size of her own, where in another time it had been five times its size. Tens of thousands stayed in Astapor under her new government rather than risk following her campaign across Slaver’s Bay.

As she neared her tent she found Jhogo awaiting her alongside the Unsullied who guarded her tent. Ser Barristan had not yet seen fit to join her, but, in truth, she did not expect him until well after she took Meereen. In her absence, she had given Rakharo command of her khalasar and bid Jhogo to guard her person. It was unneeded, with the Unsullied, but she meant to keep her bloodriders nearby.

Irri and Jhiqui had covered the floor with carpets while Missandei lit a stick of incense to sweeten the dusty air. Drogon and Rhaegal were asleep atop some cushions, curled about each other, but Viserion perched on the edge of her empty bath. Dany smiled again to see Missandei’s face. “Missandei, these Yunkai’i speak Valyrian, will they not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the woman said. “A different dialect than Astapor’s, yet close enough to understand. The slavers name themselves the Wise Masters.” 

“Wise?” Dany settled cross-legged on a cushion, reaching for Viserion as he spread his white-gold wings and came to settle at her side. “They would be fools to let it come to war. We shall see how wise they are.”

The Stormcrows and the Second Sons, and indeed three other sellsword companies, had arrived in her delay to treat with Yunkai. All save the Stormcrows had been turned away by Jhogo’s men. When the Stormcrows made to press their intent to join the Yunkai’i, for one of their captains was of the blood of Astapor, their five hundred men had been turned from the city by Jhogo’s khalasar.

When Prendahl na Ghezn had meant to press his luck against that of the Dothraki horde, Sallor the Bald and Daario Naharis had killed their fellow captain and taken Jhogo’s offer of gold. Daenerys had seen them paid well when she rode into Jhogo’s camp. She was amused to note that, despite his amusement at a woman leading a khalasar, Daario had still taken to her immediately. 

Because of this advance planning Yunkai had no sellswords. Still, she accepted their offer of parley. She was pleased, even, for she wished to see Grazdan mo Eraz, who had sworn to Tyrion and betrayed his word. Much that she did in another life she would undo, but letting this man live was a mistake to be rectified. 

They arrived as the sun sank below the horizon. Fifty men on black horses, and Grazdan on a great white camel. Grazdan still wore blue and bore a white smile such as Kraznys had before dragonfire burned it off. Dany dearly wanted to burn it off again, but she would settle for seeing his head removed.

As the Yunkai’i stepped into her tent, Missandei greeted him. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Queen of the Bay of Dragons and Great Khal of the Dothraki. Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

Missandei approached him as he sat. “Will the noble lord take refreshment?” When he nodded, she poured him a glass of wine. He drank before speaking.

“Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities,” he said, although there was confusion on his face, “Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak, Khaleesi. You shall find no easy conquest here.” 

Dany drew a hand across Viserion’s soft scales, and he rumbled happily. “Good. My bloodriders tell me that my khalasar is eager for a battle.”

“If blood is what you wish, let it flow. Those of your men who survive we will enslave, and use to retake Astapor from the rabble. We will make a slave of you as well, perhaps in Lys or Tyrosh, where men will pay to bed the last Targaryen.” 

“It is good you know who I am,” Dany said, as Jhogo and Ser Jorah bristled.

“I pride myself on my knowledge of the savage senseless west. And yet, why should we speak harshly to one another? It is true that you committed savageries in Astapor, but we Yunkai’i are a most forgiving people. Your quarrel is not with us, Your Grace. Why squander your strength against our mighty walls when you will need every man to regain your father’s throne in far Westeros? Yunkai wishes you only well in that endeavor. And to prove the truth of that, I have brought you a gift.” 

His men came forward with heavy chests, and sat them on either side of her. “Fifty thousand golden marks. There is far more than this awaiting you on the deck of your ships.”

“My ships?”

“Yes, khaleesi. The Wise Masters are a generous people. You shall have as many ships as you require.”

“And in return?”

“All we ask is that you make use of these ships and sail them back to Westeros where you belong.”

“I have a gift for you as well,” Dany matched his patient smile. “Have you heard of my conquest of Astapor?”

“We heard that you purchased the Unsullied, and with them took the city.”

“And afterwards?”

“It is said you stripped the Good Masters of all of their possessions and power, and turned them out of their homes.”

“I also banned the wearing of the tokar and all other status symbols. My freedmen tore the statues of the harpy from their places, and only those who had relatives outside the city to pay for their release were allowed to leave.” Dany reached out with one slippered foot to close the chest to her left. “Now, Astapor is ruled by a council of freedmen. And you sit in my tent and insult me.”

“Insult you, khaleesi?”

“I have named myself Queen of the Bay of Dragons, and among the Dothraki I am the Great Khal.”

“There is no Bay of Dragons that I know of,” his eyes flickered to Jhogo, who watched with murder in his eyes, “oh, Great Khal.”

“Well I cannot call it Slaver’s Bay once I overturn slavery, can I?

“Here is my gift. Return to Yunkai and tell your Wise Masters that if they set their slaves free and open the gates to my Unsullied the city will not be sacked. I will find a place for those who were once slavers among my advisors.” Dany had before offered a kinder deal, but she knew this man well enough to know that no matter what she offered it would never be enough. “Reject this gift, and I will kill every Wise Master who has not released their slaves when I come into Yunkai in three days time.

“What say you?”

“I say, you are mad!”

“Am I?” Dany crushed the anger that sprang to life. This man was little and less to her. It would not do to become enraged by him when she had use of him. “Some would say that you are correct. I walked into my husband’s pyre.”

In her lap, Viserion shifted. He sat up, and snapped at the slaver, who drew back. Dany smiled at him as her son crawled up her arm and onto her shoulders. “And I hatched dragons.”

Daenerys sighed heavily. “Take your gold and go. Tell your Wise Masters what I have said. Next time we meet, I will be Queen of Yunkai as well as Astapor.”

Once he had left her tent, Dany turned to her men. “Jhogo, take the 20,000 men who came with me to Astapor and have them strengthen our blockade of the city. If any new sellsword companies come to Yunkai turn them away, but do so as gently as possible.

“Have Rakharo split the rest of the riders into two groups. An hour before midnight we will attack the Yunkai’i forces. Make much noise, and make the attack obvious once we begin. I mean to make their men flee into the city. Kill no one that runs, or sets aside their weapon.”

“As you command.”

“Grey Worm, send for Daario of the Stormcrows.”

“Khaleesi,” Jorah said, “you told the Yunkai’i they would have three days.”

“And they shall. I will not touch the city for three days. Tell me, what do you think of this plan?”

“I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s sister,” Ser Jorah admitted.

“It is a good plan.” Grey Worm managed. He had not yet mastered speaking to her as the one with expertise, but he was trying.

Shortly thereafter, as she, Jorah, and Jhogo settled the details of the Dothraki’s involvement, Daario arrived. He gave a sweeping bow before her. “Oh, great queen, how may I be of service to you?”

“I have hired your Stormcrows, and I wish to make use of them,” she replied, knowing her amusement was evident on her face. “I mean to turn the Yunkai’i forces back into their city. I wish you to take your most trusted men, the number and men I leave up to you, and slip into the city alongside them. If the Yunkai’i do not open their gates in three days time, I wish you to open them for me.”

She knew Daario’s smile. He found her quite clever in this. “You wish to take the city without blood?”

“I do,” Dany answered, “but I cannot. My Dothraki have not yet learned the consequences of sacking a city, and I fear our initial attack shall have more looting and raping then I wish would occur. But if they do not open their gates, they must be opened.”

She rather wished for Drogon to be large enough to break down the walls, but she would not waste lives and time on a siege.

With Daario’s arrival, it took only a short time to work out details, with Dany interjecting here and there with what she knew of the battle. 

Afterward, she retired to her tent, to Missandei, and let herself be calmed by the telling of tales from Naath.


	6. Yunkai II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode past them, the three bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her in the streets.
> 
> “Mother,” they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. “Mother,” they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. “Mother, Mother, Mother!”

As before, the Battle for Yunkai was won easily.

On her side there were, perhaps, a dozen casualties, all Dothraki,, not including ten of the twenty men that Daario had taken inside the city with him. 

At dawn on the third day, the gates of the Yellow City had opened, and the Dothraki who has been patrolling just outside of arrow range had turned hard and made a dash for the gates. There had been no stopping the battle once the first group had been inside, with the Unsullied marching on the city as soon as the gates had been secured.

Not two hours past that Dany had been Queen of Yunkai. She had mounted her silver and ridden into the city with little more than an honor guard of Dothraki. As she came into the city a line of slaves greeted her. “Mhysa!” A man shouted out at her. He had a child on his shoulder, a little girl, and she screamed the same word in her thin voice. “Mhysa! Mhysa!” 

Again Dany felt a lightness in her chest. Her hand trembled as she raised it. She could not have crushed the mad smile on her face even had she wanted to. The man grinned and shouted again, and others took up the cry. 

“Mhysa!” they called. “Mhysa! MHYSA!”

They were all smiling at her, reaching for her, kneeling before her. “Maela,” some called her while others cried “Aelalla” or “Qathei” or “Tato,” but whatever the tongue it all meant the same thing. Mother. 

The chant grew, spread, swelled. it swelled so loud that it frightened her horse, and the mare backed and shook her head and lashed her silver-grey tail. It swelled until it seemed to shake the yellow walls of Yunkai. They were running toward her now, pushing, stumbling, wanting to touch her hand, to stroke her horse’s mane, to kiss her feet. Her poor guardsmen could not keep them all away. 

Ser Jorah, riding beside her, urged her to go, but Dany shook her head, and spoke in the Common Tongue so he would not misunderstand. “They will not hurt me,” she told him. “They are my children, Jorah.” 

She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode past them, the three bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her in the streets.

“Mother,” they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. “Mother,” they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. “Mother, Mother, Mother!” 

At last she reached the pyramid of Grazdan mo Eraz. It was not the greatest in the city, but it was the one Dany had commanded the Unsullied to take for her own. She reined in before the steps, and turned to face the people. Her people.

“Take off your collars, go if you wish, no one will stop you!” 

“Mhysa!” They sang, and a hail of slave collars was produced from the crowd, yet none of them hit her or her men. Some landed at the feet of her silver, who started, but Dany held her in place.

“I am Daenerys Targaryen. Queen of the Bay of Dragons!” The cheer rose beyond her voice, and she had to wait for it to die to continue. “But this victory is not mine alone! In Astapor, when the Unsullied killed the masters those enslaved rose up in revolt. So was it here! My Dothraki tell of men and women fighting at their sides, taking up swords and spears, rocks and sticks, to change their futures!

“Your freedom is not mine to give! It is yours! Today, tomorrow, and forever!” Dany raised herself in the saddle, matching the cheer of the crowd. 

“Dāerves!” She cried, in Valyrian. The crowd echoed her in a hundred tongues. “Freedom, freedom, freedom!”

~oOo~

Her second meeting with Grazdan mo Eraz was different than the first.

It was some few days after she had taken Yunkai and been cheered in the streets. Those first days had been hard. Yunkai had been swarmed by some 10,000 Dothraki, and despite her orders innocents had been killed and raped and looted, as was the way of her men. While she could do little for those who were dead she had ordered any who had been caught raping castrated and took tribute from those who were caught stealing. 

The Dothraki thought eunuchs to be unworthy to be riders, and she had demanded the best horses be given to her in exchange for her repaying the victims in gold. Dany could only hope that this would so thoroughly humiliate the perpetrators that no one would want to risk her wrath in the future. 

Today, however, she hoped to enjoy the justice she must mete out. 

Sure Spear and his men currently served as her guards, but Dany did not want to begin their time in Yunkai negatively. Because of this, she had different Unsullied bring in the masters accused of maintaining their slaves until they were ripped from their hands.

A plain stone bench had been sat at the top of the plaza, draped with a red dragon on black, and there Dany awaited the former masters. As they entered the crowd shouted and jeered, and a few hurled things at the prisoners.Their clothes were still finely made, but filthy from a few days in the cells. All looked tired and afraid. 

When the last of them was in place, Dany raised a hand and the crowd’s fury dulled to a simmer. At her side, Missandei spoke. “Wise Masters of Yunkai. You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, The Unburnt, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, Great Khal of the Dothraki, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

The scribe that would serve Sure Spear was a finely-boned boy formerly of Grazdan’s pyramid. “Your Grace, these are the Wise Masters who did not release their slaves before you took Yunkai by force.”

Dany smiled down at them. “For all of your lives you have traded in people. This is not a currency that I find acceptable, but I am a merciful queen. First, I gave you a chance to free your slaves and open the gates of the city. Now I will permit trials to be held. Two freedmen must speak against you for you to be found guilty.

“Those who are found to be guilty wipp die, as you were the head of the household which continued to keep slaves.” Dany’s eyes focused on Grazdan. “I wish to begin with Grazdan mo Eraz. Step forward.”

The man had to be brought forward by two Unsullied. Grazdan was pale and shaking, but Day could not find it in her to feel sorry for the man. He had known the price he would pay for his actions. “Are there two to speak against Grazdan mo Eraz?”

“I will,” a brown-skinned man made his way to the front of the crowd. His face was familiar, but it took Dany a moment to recognize him as one of the slaves who had accompanied him to her pavillion, “Grazdan was a cruel master, and he did not release me until Dothraki riders came through the city and I fled his pyramid.”

“He speaks the truth!” The second man was as pale as any man of Quarth. “Grazdan let his son rape this one’s wife when we were slaves under him, and the last of his slaves were only released when Unsullied soldiers searched through the pyramid for them.”

“Do any speak in his defense?” Dany asked. Not a man moved from the crowd of freedmen. After several moments, she turned back to the slaver with a smile firmly in place. “When last we spoke, I told you that when we again met I would be Queen of Meereen. And now I am. Do you have any last words?”

“Queen Daenerys, I beg you-”

Drogon uncurled his neck from her shoulders as Dany looked down upon Grazdan. His clever red eyes followed her gaze as she focused on the slaver. “I shall give you the mercy of a quick death.”

She could not have their heads cut off. It was a method of execution given only to the highborn in Slaver’s Bay, and it would not do to show favoritism to the masters. It had been the opinion of many of the slaves that anything less than torture would not do, but that would not do. Drogon was still young enough that his fire did not kill instantly, or she would have simply burned them. No, they would be hung. Afterward, they would be turned over to any family member that requested them, but Dany had refused to allow any of them to be placed in their religious houses.

It would be a long and bloody day, but by nightfall all save three of the accused slavers had been killed. One was a boy of twelve whose father had died in the sack, one had been improperly accused and had let her slaves go free as commanded, and one had been defended. 

It was not as satisfying as taking her freedmen without a battle had been, but it also prevented Yunkai from fortifying their position and cutting her off from Astapor.

Dany had freed them.

She would not see them back in chains.

Not again.


	7. Meereen I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She would show the Meereenese fire and blood.

Aggo had set up an encampment a league from Meereen, and this was where he met Dany when she and her company rode in.

“Welcome to Meereen, khaleesi.” He rode the handsome bay she had gifted him after she took Vaes Dothrak as her own, and had a small cluster of riders behind him. Dany could hardly blame him, 10,000 riders was a decently sized khalasar, and difficult to control without assistance..

"Blood of my blood," she returned, reining in her silver next to him, "How is the city?"

She knew from his face then that something had gone wrong. "Come, khaleesi," he bid, turning his stallion. 

As they rode through the camp, Dany mused that, while the Dothraki in general called her khal, Drogo's former riders called her khaleesi still. It mattered little to her, so long as they respected her.

Her musing was cut off when Aggo stopped, turning in the saddle to look at her. Dany nudged her silver forward, beyond the ranks of her men, looking toward the walls of Meereen.

What she saw took her breath away and lit a fire in her heart.

"Forgive us, khaleesi. There was nothing we could do." Aggo said.

"It is not your fault, blood of my blood," Dany's voice was firm. The dragon did not cry, she thought, remembering Drogon's fire and fury against the Iron Fleet. The dragon did not weep for injustice, it met it with death. Still, she wanted to weep. Had she spent so long in Westeros that she forgot the master’s complete disregard for life? 

The walls of Meereen were higher than those of her sister cities, thicker than Astapor's and better maintained than Yunkai's, and larger than both of them combined. Yet every few meters the body of a child hung from the walls. Dany was not close enough to see, but she doubted they had died there.

Not for the first time, Dany wished that Drogon were large enough to ride, to break through walls with teeth and claws and fire. Instead her child was perched behind her on her silver, a thick blanket protecting the mare from his claws.

It did not matter. She would show the Meereenese fire and blood.

"Send for Grey Worm. Bid him to send a rider under a white flag. I wish to speak with the Green Grace of Meereen." Aggo spoke to one of her men and they wheeled their horse about to follow her order, but her eyes remained fixed on the walls long after.

It was some time later the priestess arrived. Galazza Galare rode in a litter attended by Pink Graces and young slaves. Dany watched as the curtains were drawn and a tall, graceful woman with hair whiter than her own stepped into the sand and met Daenerys' eyes.

Missandei, seated on a cushion inside of Dany’s pavillion, with Rhaegal clinging to her, spoke first. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Queen of the Bay of Dragons and Great Khal of the Dothraki. Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.

"Your Grace, Galazza Galare, Green Grace and High Priestess of Meereen."

Without looking away, Dany tossed the hunk of meat in her hand into the air. "Drogon, dracarys."

A burst of black-and-red flames filled the air, and her son spread his wings and flew forward to catch his prize. He missed the woman only by the grace of his flight, and then circled back to his perch beside her. "It is well that you have come," Dany said, "please, sit."

"It is an honor to meet with the Mother of Dragons," the Green Grace allowed, sharp green eyes taking in everything as she settled into the stiff wooden chair.

Dany was in no mood for pleasantries. She motioned to Aggo at her side. "My riders tell me that they prevented the Meereenese from executing children outside of their walls, so they did so on the walls."

"A warning, some in the city would say," the priestess' voice was calm, but her words were wary. Meereen could not stand against her Dothraki and Unsullied even if half her army fell. 

"Indeed. So here is my warning. By sundown tomorrow I shall be in Meereen. I will tear down every symbol of the Harpy within the city. I will burn the Temple of the Graces to the ground, and hang its inhabitants from the walls. I will forbid the practice of worship within the city and command all idols to be turned over and destroyed." Daenerys watched as the Grace stilled, face going pale as she spoke. "The dragon can warn as well as the harpy.”

"And what do you ask of us? We have heard of the atrocities of Astapor and Yunkai." She called them atrocities, but when slaves had been flayed alive for less than lying they had called it justice. They did not know what good was.

"If you do not do as I command, they will hear of the atrocities of Meereen." Dany returned.

"You cannot take the cities of the Ghiscari and ban the gods of Old Ghis." Galare said. "The noblemen will never stop fighting."

"They cannot fight if they are dead." In a single leap Drogon moved from his perch to her bench, making the priestess start.

"You cannot kill us all."

"I can, and I will." Dany was not in the mood for politics. "When my dragons are grown we will lay waste to armies and burn cities to the ground. Wherever your gods go I will follow."

For a moment, the Green Grace sat and looked upon Dany. Dany knew what she saw: a young girl with the delicate features of Old Valyria. Her ancestors had learned slavery from the Ghiscari, but never had the cities of old been able to stand against the dragonlords. Nor had Astapor and Yunkai.

"What do you want of us?"

"On the morrow you will open the gates to me. When I march into the city the Great Masters will turn over to me those responsible for the children upon the walls. All of those responsible. If any are missing or any are innocent, I will burn down your temple with the priestess still inside."

"And what will we receive in return?"

Daenerys lifted a second cut of meat from the basket at her side. This time she gave it gently to Viserion, who was curled over her legs. He took it with great care, then settled it between his winged legs and breathed fire over it. As her child took her first bite, Dany spoke. "Your lives."

"You cannot expect us to turn our city over to you to have our properties and wealth stripped from us, as were the men of Yunkai and Astapor."

"And you cannot expect me to stand aside and allow the murder of children. You care nothing for the slaves, I know, but if I took your children and slaughtered them you would not be so calm." Daenerys motioned to Aggo, who waited at the exit, and spoke in Dothraki. "Blood of my blood, escort this woman back to her city. I do not want her journey to be peaceful." Then she turned back to the Green Grace. "I offer you what I did not to Astapor and Yunkai. In Astapor many of the Good Masters were slaughtered in the initial attack, and in Yunkai I hung the Wise Masters who refused to free their slaves. I offer the Great Masters a gift: their lives. If you reject this gift, I will show you no mercy."

Galare rose from her chair and returned to her litter, steps steady and solid. Her slaves took up her weight, while her Pink Graces hurried to care for their lady. The Green Grace was the face of the city. She could not afford to show fear, even in the face of the dragon. Still, she looked back to Dany's face one last time as the litter turned to carry her out of camp.

"Ser Jorah," she bid, eyes still on the retreating party, "bring me my bloodriders."

When they were all gathered, Grey Worm and Missandei, Rakharo and Aggo and Jhogo, Ser Jorah and Daario and her children, Daenerys spoke again. "Grey Worm, gather a force of 200 Unsullied. Two hours after sunset they will go to the harbor and set fire to the hulks in the harbor.

"Ser Jorah, you will enter the city through the sewers. I know a place where the iron bars will be near rusted through. Select thirty men to accompany you. Once you are inside, find the fighting pits and release all of the slaves there. Make your way to the eastern gate and open them.

"Aggo, I want you to send groups of 500 men to incircle the city. Daario will lead the Second Sons who will be nearest to the eastern gate. When the gates are opened, the men under his command will ride for the gate and keep it open. After this, the main force of the Unsullied will capture the city."

Her men looked between themselves, but Dany only looked to Grey Worm, her expression mild. "When we have taken the city, send for me. I will take the Great Pyramid as my own. At dawn, summon the Green Grace to an audience."

"You do not mean to give them the second day?" Daario asked.

"A second hour is too long for the Meereenese to remain slaves, but we must wait for cover of darkness." Daenerys lifted a hand to pet Drogon's scales as he crawled over her to sniff at the basket. "I desire no unnecessary bloodshed, but show no mercy to those who stand in your way."


	8. Meereen II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meereen wants a lady of Old Ghis. Instead they get a dragon queen. As above, so beneath.

From Meereen’s central plaza the Great Pyramid rose eight hundred feet from the city. While Meereen held many pyramids, no other stood even half so high. 

Dany allowed herself only one indulgence. While her men secured the city she joined her handmaids on their walk to the thirty-third floor, the rooms she had held for years. The rooms were cool and dim, the bed made up in green and purple, wardrobe filled to the brim with unfamiliar clothes, but it felt like home.

While Irri and Jhiqui and Doreah stripped the rooms and brought in her things, Dany stepped out onto the terrace and into the garden. There was the little persimmon tree and the pool, and although the night was dark she knew that she would be able to see the beautiful temples, winding river, and the dry brown hills of the city. How had she ever wanted to leave this place? Dany wanted to curl into the great bed in the center of her chamber and sleep until the rooms lost their alien smell, but she could not.

Leaving her apartments, Dany ventured to her audience chamber, Rakharo and Missandei following behind her. They were lost in the many corridors and staircases, she knew, but Dany knew the way down the broad marble stairs. Together they pulled open the great doors enough to slip inside.

As they walked its high ceilings echoed and the chill of the room made Dany shiver, but she continued up the stairs until she stood before the throne. It was a beautiful thing to the Meereenese, but Dany saw only a wooden harpy. “Missandei, will you bid the men to take this once they are free?”

“Take it where, Your Grace,” Missandei asked.

“A closet, the harbor, a fire. I care not. I will not sit on the lap of a harpy before my city. Have them bring me a bench.” Ebony, Dany thought, but did not say. “I will see the Green Grace here.”

The last time she had seen the room there had been a table here, and Dany means to find a place for a council of Meereenese. Only not in her audience room. 

By the time dawn arrived, and the Green Grace with it, Dany had again her ebony wood bench and the Unsullied labored to bring down the harpy from the top of the pyramid. Grey Worm and Rakharo stood behind her on either side of her throne, while Missandei stood in front of her.

She took a moment to study the older woman as she entered. While she still wore the green colors and veil, her tokar has been swapped for a more useful style of draped gown, even though Dany had not yet found the time to send criers announcing the new laws. In her last life it had been Galare herself who convinced Dany to not only to not ban the tokar, but to wear one. 

Now she sat in her ebony bench atop the stairs of her audience room wearing a soft blue dress held up by the collar around her neck and the golden corset she had commissioned in Yunkai. It was sometime that a slave might have worn yesterday in one of the Great Master’s pyramids. Daenerys was not a master, and would no longer pretend to care for their wishes.

Once they had been introduced, Dany allowed a polite smile. “I apologize for the surprise of our early arrival. I worried that some of the Great Masters would do something foolish.”

“It is in poor faith,” the Green Grace allowed, although she did not look terribly surprised, “and it means that we have not had time to discuss among ourselves the other matters you bid of us.”

“I will not prevent any meetings from being held. Whatever you had planned to speak of you may now.”

“As we speak your Unsullied tramp through every pyramid in the city, even of those who freed their slaves. We cannot gather today, with fear of them breaking in.”

“Then I will give you two days,” Dany said, “Today and tomorrow. On the third day you will turn over those responsible for the deaths.”

“Is there nothing else that will satisfy you? The men you seek are of noble blood and birth.”

“And the children they slew were as important as they.” Dany frowned down at the woman, “This is why I must do this, because you do not understand. The lives of those children were worth much, and they were slaughtered as a message to me. If I let those who committed the crime walk free then it will happen again and again, because they will never believe that slave children are worth as much as they.”

“You think that this will make Meereen yours,” Galazza Galare looked up at her with steel in her eyes. This woman was likely the harpy, Dany knew. She could not find it in her to care, “If you do this thing, Your Radiance shall forever remain a stranger amongst us, a grotesque outlander, a barbarian conqueror. Meereen's queen must be a lady of Old Ghis whom the nobles of the city respect and believe in. Not a murderer.”

“Meereen is already mine. The freedmen in this city outnumber the nobles, I will remind you. The murder was done by the masters, what I do is only to demand justice.” Dany settled back onto the bench. “It matters little to me if the former masters believe in me. I grant you mercy bydemanding only those who murdered children to send me a message, by rights I could kill every one of them for slavery. 

“I am Queen of Meereen. They can either live in my new world, or die in their old one. I will have your answer by sunhigh of the third day.”

“I must go and speak to them now,” the Grace said, “we have little time.”

“There is one other thing. I have need of a handmaiden.”

“Many in Meereen would be honored. I can find a suitable girl.” Galare assured her.

“You do not need to find one,” Dany replied, “Bring me Qezza, your cousin. She will serve as my cupbearer and handmaid.”

“The child is only sixteen. She has no training in royal matters.” She bore none of the sins of her family either, Dany mused, as the woman bristled defensively.

“She needs no training. My ladies will teach her anything she needs to know. Do not worry, she will come to no harm so long as no one poisons my food.”

Dany watched as she retreated. She doubted the slavers would meet her demands, but with guards filling the city nor would they be able to strike out at her men.

“Grey Worm,” she said at last, when the sound of footsteps had faded, “I need a counsel of Meereenese. Will you find me three freedmen for it? It should be those that the others respect.”

After Grey Worm left, Dany returned to her rooms up the broad marble staircase, finding them to be more welcoming than when she had left. Beyond the terrace doors she could see her dragons around the plum tree. As she approached, Drogon lifted his head to look at her, then flung himself from the tree and flying to her on stuttering wings. They were still young, younger than they had been in Qarth, but having before felt the connection to him she could find it again with ease. 

Holding Drogon tight against her chest, she knelt to allow Viserion to climb into her lap. When she and Rhaegal began to argue, she heard a laugh behind her. Irri was watching from the doorway, and when she caught Dany’s eye she stepped out, and spoke in Dothraki. “Forgive me, Khaleesi. They are growing more adventurous every day.”

“One day Drogon will be larger than the harpy statue was,” Daenerys said, petting her son.

“Khal Drogo would be proud of them.”

Dany was already proud of them. She was also worried. Jon Snow had been able to ride Rhaegal because of his Targaryen blood, but he had not been as careful with her child as she would have liked. No one ever would be, she thought. And who would ride them now? The King in the North would not come anywhere near her children, of that she was sure.

She tugged Drogon’s claws from her shoulder and lifted him to throw him into the air. “Sōvegon!” He flapped awkwardly, then fell back to her shoulders. Dany caught him, laughing at the way his thin wings beat the air. 

Rhaegal climbed up Irri’s leather trousers, and as she pried the dragon off her clothes to hold him Dany could not help but smile. It had been so long since she had seen her children happy. In the North they had been cold and miserable, and then in mourning.

Seeing her sons like this, she could not help but wonder if it was worth it to continue her campaign. But how could she turn away slaves who needed her aid to break their chains? The masters, she knew, would never stop trying to overturn her. For generations they would struggle to cast down the slaves that she had freed. 

And in Westeros the lords did not even seem to think they had a problem. It would continue, high lords sending their small folk and bannermen to fight and die in wars they did not start and did not want. A small number of families would struggle to place their blood on the throne, to cater to the crown, without care for those that looked to them for leadership and aid.

How were the lives of her children worth the freedom of men who did not seem themselves as chained?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valyrians conquered the Ghiscari, and it was from them they learned to take slaves. They fought five times, and lost all to the dragons. Well, perhaps six now.


	9. Meereen III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys returns to Daznak's Pit.

Daenerys had chosen to forgo holding a proper court until the issue of the slavers had been settled, for the safety of the pyramid as well as allowing Grey Worm more men. Still, when Missandei came to her on the morning of the third day and said that a Red Priestess had come to speak with her, Dany dressed for court and bid her enter.

She had not forgotten the role they played the last time Dany had needed help in Meereen, and it was well that she did not need to seek them out herself. How to explain to them what she needed them to do, it was a difficult task even if they trusted her.

Once Dany was settled in, the doors of her audience chamber opened to permit a familiar priestess and two guards. For once, Dany’s smile was not for the sake of those watching. How good it was to meet an old face again.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, Great Khal of the Dothraki, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons”. Missandei introduced her, as was custom.

“Your Grace,” one of the guards said, “now comes Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light.”

The man turned and stepped away, allowing Kinvara to come forward. She had pale skin and dark, dark auburn hair. A collar made of interlocking squares rested on her neck, with a ruby in the center. 

“Welcome to Meereen,” Dany said, knowing that warmth was seeping into her expression and not able to hold it back, “Why have you come so far?”

“I have come to help, Your Grace. You are the one who was promised. From the fire you were reborn to remake the world. When you gained your army you freed the slaves from their chains and killed the masters for their sins. Your dragons are fire made flesh. You, and they, are a gift from the Lord of Light.” Kinvara met her eyes, and Dany thought again that perhaps this woman was far older than Daenerys was or that she looked. She had the look of experience in her face. “Your dragons will purify the non-believers by the thousands. Burning their sins and flesh away.”

“I would prefer not to purify all that many unbelievers.” Dany observed, watching the woman’s face. She had to remind herself, again and again, that these people were not the people they were before. Daario had never lain in her bed, and Tyrion had never betrayed her. Missandei did not know her as more than a queen, not yet, and Grey Worm still learned the skills that made him the great general of her army. “There are those of many religions in my lands.”

“It is not men I speak of, My Queen, but of those in the great war still to come.” Dany stilled, her smile freezing on her face, her hands on her lap suddenly numb. Kinvara’s expression did not change. “Death is coming for everyone and everything. A darkness that will swallow the dawn. You know. You have seen.”

Kinvara moved to climb the steps, but two Unsullied reached out with their spears. She did not hesitate, even as they took them in hand and moved to step forward. Only then did Dany manage to raise her hand to prevent them from stopping her. When she had reached the top, she stilled before her. “When the red star bleeds and darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. 

“Do you understand now? Mother of Dragons, you are, and Daughter of Death.”

Daenerys swallowed hard, struggling to speak. It was as if she could see it again, a blue rose on the Wall, herself standing before the Iron Throne covered in the snow and ash of Kings Landing. “It was for the Lord of Light, then? That I have suffered?”

“The Lord gives us visions in the flames. And he gave you life. It is up to us what we do with his gift.”

“Will you break your fast with me?” Dany asked. It was only the eyes and ears of the Unsullied and Missandei, but it made her nervous still. How does one explain they have died and been brought back, even to those loyal to them? 

“I would be honored, My Queen.”

~oOo~

At sunhigh, some thirty men had been turned over to the Unsullied who guarded the Great Pyramid.

She seethed in silence, unwilling to trade the lives of one hundred and sixty three children for that of thirty cruel men, but she called for a trial nevertheless. For this purpose she took over Daznak's Pit, and invited any who would come. Those who could speak on behalf of the children were brought down into the pit beside them.

Daenerys had dressed for the occasion. The colors of House Targaryen were red and black, but she had always favored the blue that Drogo had chosen to represent his khalasar. Today she wore a gown of beautiful dark blue, draped delicately over her chest. In many ways, it mimicked the tokar, but it still had the neckline and freedom of movement she preferred.

Qezza was a young, thin girl with dark brown hair and light brown skin. Many of the former masters had taken to wearing clothes similar to that of the tokar, but Qezza had arrived yesterday wearing a gown of red Westerosi wool. A protection against her wrath, Dany thought.

Although she had only just flowered, the girl was an expert at wrapping a tokar. Dany’s simpler gown took little time. Irri brought her Dothraki leathers and boots, while Doreah placed a slender silver crown on her head. Dany would not wear their floppy ears, but neither would she come to them as a beggar queen.

Outside of the pyramid her bloodriders awaited her with her silver, and mounts for her handmaidens. Irri and Jhiqui had a matched pair of bay mares, which Dany had gifted to them after taking the khals herds in Vaes Dothrak. Dany had also chosen the beautiful liver chestnut with a white blaze for MIssandei. Rakharo had chosen the horse they had fetched for Qezza, a pale dappled grey gelding. The girl shook as Aggo helped her into the saddle, and while at first Dany thought it was because of the Dothraki it continued as they rode. In truth, the girl seemed lucky that they had brought her a tame horse, for she hardly touched the reins.

Drogon rode on her shoulders, while Viserion and Rhaegal flew above them. Dany did not fear losing the dragons. They would return to her; she was their mother. And no one would shoot them from the sky. Her Dothraki flooded the streets around her, eyes open for dangers.

At the pit, Dany was pleased to find the red and orange benches filled with freedmen, while the purple and black held former noblemen. She and her ladies were escorted to the high dais that Dany had once sat at while Jorah fought in the pit. Today he and Grey Worm guarded her.

Once they were settled, a large group entered, part slaver and part freedmen. Mounted Dothraki kept the two groups from each other. Once all were settled, Dany spoke in Dothraki. “Bring me one of the men.”

It was not done gently. The rider flicked his whip forward, caught one of the men around the neck, and dragged him several meters before dropping him before her. “What is your name?” Dany asked.

The man drew himself up in his dusty, fine purple tokar. “I am Regnahl of Rhazdar.”

Then she turned to her freedmen. “Who speaks from the House of Rhazdar?”

First came a woman with tears on her face, a young boy by her side. Dany smiled at her, motioning her forward. “Do not be afraid.”

“I will always be afraid,” Dany spoke in High Valyrian, but the former slave spoke in the bastard Valyrian of Meereen. “But I must speak for my daughter. She was seven. And she was taken from the kitchen to the walls of the city and killed.”

“And I am here for my son.” A man and his wife came to stand beside her. “They took our son and his friend, and they killed them.”

That broke the dam. In the end, thirteen people came forward to accuse, and it seemed there were at least fifteen victims from Rhazdar’s house. Some of them hardly dared to say what had happened. Others looked into her face and told her what their child had been doing, and what he had been wearing, and what she had been like. In the end, Dany’s fury had settled to a pit of ice.

“I have heard the testimony. Regnahl of Rhazdar, do you have anything to say in your defence?”

“You have said that anything done before your reign began was pardoned. These children were my property when they died. I have done nothing wrong.”

“You have done many things wrong.” Dany interjected. “You have raped women and brutalized children and sold men like livestock. But this you did because you wanted to send me a warning. Know, Regnahl of Rhazdar: I have heard your warning.

“I, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, do sentence you to die. For your crimes you will be burned at the stake.” She turned to the Unsullied who waited within the pit. “Take him.”

The man screamed as he was dragged away. He called her a horselord’s whore and a dragon bitch. Daenerys was unmoved. Once his voice could no longer be heard she turned to the freedmen. “You do not have to stay here any longer. If you have need of employment, go with White Rat. He will take care of you.”

Several people moved toward the Unsullied. One woman looked her in the face. “What if I wish to see the master burned?”

“He is not a master,” Dany returned, “but Haello will take you outside the pit if you please.”

One by one, the slavers were dragged before her. As they saw their fate approaching some dropped to their knees and sobbed. Others tried to flee, and her riders dragged them back. One made it to the line of Unsullied who guarded the pit and had to withstand a stomach wound during his trial. 

After the last man had been dragged up a few freedmen still lingered. Dany looked to Missandei. “How many children have you accounted for?”

“One hundred fifty nine, Your Grace.”

“Then four more children were killed than I have men to answer for.” She looked to the freedmen. “Tell me, what house were the children that were taken from you from?”

An old, grey-haired man with dark skin used a cane as he approached. “My grandchild was poor, but free, oh, Glorious Queen.”

Dany wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. “And you others?”

“My two daughters were taken,” a woman pale as Qarth claimed, “I am from the pyramid of Loraq, but my children had been given as gifts to Pahl.”

“Where are those of Loraq?” Daenerys demanded. 

There was some pause, but then a man proceeded down the pit. When he reached the edge, he hesitated. He wore a fine indigo robe that had clearly once been a tokar. At last he settled for walking around the pit, to where Daenerys waited. As he walked, she turned to Qezza. “Will you introduce him?”

She flushed violently, but when he came to stand before her the girl’s high, shaky voice rose. “Now comes the noble lord, Hizdahr zo Loraq, the Fourteenth of That Noble Name.”

“Tell me, Hizdahr. What happened to these children?”

“They were working in the Pyramid of Pahl, of whom I have some distant relation. The lady of the pyramid was ill, and those- the children, they were musicians and singers. I sent them as a sign of our faith and partnership. Then they were taken and killed. Men are no longer property in Meereen, Your Radiance, but when they were taken it was theft, and a great dishonor to my house.”

“And if I ask Pahl, what will they say?”

“Likely that they do not remember. Forgive me, Great Queen, but Oznak zo Pahl was killed by your sellsword, his father died defending the city gates, and his first uncle is among the men you judged here today.”

“Rakharo, fetch me this man. I do not care if you bring me his ashes, but bring them.” Dany ordered in his tongue, and Rakharo leapt into the pit, commandeered a horse from one of the men, and rode off. Then she turned back to Hizdahr. “Come and sit. If you speak the truth you may return to eat dinner with me. If you have lied, you will go with the men of Pahl to be burned as well.”

Looking to the last woman, Dany summoned her. “Come, tell me of the fate of your family.”

“My son was born free, although I had been a slave. He was taken by a man from the city guard.”

“Which man?”

“I do not know.” Tears streamed from her eyes. “They wore armor, all of them.”

Feeling none too generous, Dany turned to Hizdahr. “If you survive the night, you must find me this man.”

“I will find him. He does us great dishonor.”

“Dishonor? You killed children.”

“I killed no one. My father was against this, and very angry when he learned of it. Pahl owes us tribute, although I suspect they have none to give.”

“Find him, and I will give you tribute,” Dany replied. The old man still waited. “I cannot pay the price of a life, for no such price exists. Does the child taken have other family?”

“Yes, two brothers and I.”

“You must come with me to my pyramid. I will give you food and clothes and work for as long as you will stay.”

As they spoke, Rakharo rode back into the pit, with several Dothraki and a prisoner following behind. “This is the man, khaleesi.”

“I am told that you had in your possession two children who were not yours to give, and you murdered them and hung them from the walls nevertheless. Is this true?”

The man had tears streaming down his face, and spoke while shaking all over. “It is true. We did great dishonor to our house.”

If Daenerys heard one more man claim dishonor for theft instead of murdering children she would kill them with her own hands. She turned to Rakharo. “Take that one back and kill him last.”

Then she rose from her seat. Hizdahr made for a poor husband, but he was a truthful man, at least. Perhaps he would suit a seat on her counsel. She meant to find three freedmen and three who had been free before she came, but the poor of the city vastly outnumbered the nobles. It was unlikely that more than one would suit. Still, she must know if killing a bird on a sacred day was going to incite a riot.

“Come, Hizdahr of Loraq.” She bid. “Ride with me through the city.”

  
  
  
  
  



	10. Meereen IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany will never be a master swordsman, but she owes it to those who would die for her to learn to defend herself.

When Dany had made the request, Jorah had looked at her as if she might be joking.

“Are you certain this is what you wish, khaleesi?”

She had stared at him for a moment, remembering watching him fall once, twice, again, and get back up to protect her. Jorah had died to save her life, and she owed it to him, to all those who defended her, to be able to defend herself. “I am certain. Teach me.”

He had bid her to try the bow, and Jhogo had suggested the whip, but Dany was insistent. It must be a sword, or perhaps a spear. Something to make her useful in hand-to-hand combat. Grey Worm had offered to teach her how to wield a spear, but Jorah had insisted that a sword would be more useful if Dany should need to defend herself.

This had led to Dany being handed an arming sword, and being repeatedly struck by Ser Jorah holding a wooden sword of his own. It had been three months since they had begun, and Dany felt as though she were getting hit less often. Or perhaps Jorah was getting better at hitting her softly.

Today she was sweating in her Dothraki leathers as Ser Jorah pressed his attack. Dany stumbled back, defending herself clumsily. She raised her sword and he went under it with a sweeping blow that caught the side of her leg and sent her staggering. Off balence, she attempted a downcut to catch the knight, and he answered with an overhand that would have hurt had she not been wearing a helm. Even so, she would later find it dented. Growing desperate, she swung the sword sideways,and Jorah swept her blade away and slammed his forearm into her chest. 

He was not armored, but it still hurt. Dany lost her footing and ended up on the ground. Immediately Ser Jorah droped his sword to kneel beside her in the grass. “Khaleesi, are you hurt?”

Her hands fumbled at the buckle of her helm before she can remove it, but once she does he relaxed in the face of her bright eyes and smile. “I think I am getting better, ser.”

“Yes, khaleesi. Soon we will have to have you a true sword made.”

There are Valyrian swords among the things taken from the pyramids. She had them carried from Astapor and Yunkai to Meereen, one of the few things she had kept for herself out of the plunder of the cities. She will have to find someone to reforge one for a woman’s hand, and although the others would fetch a high price she cannot bear to part with them. 

Daenerys could lie to herself and claim that it was because she did not want them wielded against her, but in truth it was that she might need them someday. Need them against creatures who fell to nothing else. 

She pushed the thought away and accepted the hand Ser Jorah offered her. Once on her feet, helm in one hand, she looked down at her wooden sword. “I think, perhaps, we should be done for the day.”

“Yes, Khaleesi. Would you like me to escort you to your rooms?”

“Thank you, Ser Jorah, but you should clean up as well. Mossador and my guards will escort me.”

The day was late, twilight filtering through the dust that hung about the city. Together she and her guards climbed the stairs of the pyramid to her rooms on the thirty-third floor. Inside, she found Missandei reading some old scroll on the bed near Drogon. Jhiqui and Irri were curled up on the ground with Viserion dozing between them, chattering eagerly. 

"You are too skinny for him," Jhiqui was saying. "You are almost a boy. Rakharo does not bed with boys. This is known." 

Irri bristled back. "It is known that you are almost a cow. Rakharo does not bed with cows."

Rakharo had grown almost half a foot during his time with Daenerys. He had arms and legs thick with muscle and four bells in his hair from fighting battles within the Bay of Dragons.. He towered over Aggo and Jhogo now, as her handmaids had both noticed. It was good that Drogo’s brother was becoming well-loved among the Dothraki.

“Qezza,” Dany bid the young girl who was seated next to the bed, watching the sleeping Drogon with wide eyes, “will you find me something light and cool to wear?”

On the terrace a cool wind was blowing. Dany sighed with pleasure as she slipped into the cool waters of the little pool. Irri came to her with soap and oil as she undid the braids in her hair. “Khaleesi, would you like me to help you wash?”

“If you don’t mind?” Irri stripped off her clothes and climbed in after her. “Have either of you actually spoken with Rakharo about what he wants?”

“No, Khaleesi. If Rakharo was interested in taking one of us to wife he would speak with us.”

Dany considered this. When her brother had sold her to Drogo, Illyrio had made the suggestion to the khal. It had already been known, however, that Drogo looked for a foreign wife - and who better for the greatest of the Dothraki khals than Princess Daenerys? 

“Is that how Dothraki weddings are arranged?”

“Most wives of riders are taken from their khal’s khalasar. Women taken from other khalasars are normally slaves. The daughters of a khal will be wed to either to his bloodriders or the greatest of his riders, or perhaps to another khal or khalakka.” Irri explained, as she washed Dany’s back.

“Did you want to marry?” Dany asked.

“There were many riders I had wished to take me as wife,” Irri answered, “but all were in Khal Drogo’s khalasar. When I was taken from my own I was too young.”

“Viserys offered me to Khal Drogo. Is that common?”

“The marriage is arranged between the eldest male relative of the woman and the rider who wishes to take her as wife. I heard of this only afterward, but it was said among the khalasar that Khal Drogo had been told that Viserys was a khal.”

“He was,” Dany said, almost automatically. Irri said nothing, but Dany knew what she must think. “Viserys was my only family. Our mother named him king after the death of our father.”

“A khal is one who makes himself,” Irri said, “he is not named by his mother or father. He is followed for his strength, it is known. Perhaps Viserys was a king, but he was no khal.”

“Do you have relatives, Irri?”

“My mother lives in the khalasar, wed to a rider now,” Irri replied, “but no men.”

“Would your mother speak on your behalf to Rakharo?”

“He… might speak to her husband, Khaleesi. But I am not his daughter, so it is unlikely.”

“You would speak on your own behalf, then?”

“Khaleesi… I have nothing to offer a rider such as Rakharo. He may take me for a zafra, but not a wife.”

Dany sat up sharply in the pool, startling Irri. “You are not a slave, Irri. I freed you.”

“Not a zafra, then. A… paramour, it is called?”

“Why would he not take you as a wife? You are a free woman.”

“When a rider requests a woman as wife he gives her father fine horses depending on her worth. A woman’s worth is dependant on her father’s, and I have no father.”

Dany caught her hand and held it tight. “You are worth much to me. Worth more than all the horses Rakharo has in his herd, including the fine starred black. Rakharo may speak to me on your behalf, and on Jhiqui’s.”

“Thank you, khaleesi.” Irri’s smile was uncertain, but warmth filled her gaze. “What of you? I have seen the sellsword in your rooms. A khaleesi must have a khal, it is known.”

“I am a khal, and a khal does not have to have a khaleesi,” Dany replied, almost amused at the change of subject. It was true Daario was often in her rooms, but she suspected Irri meant to shame her into not talking about potential husbands. “It pleases me to have Daario in my bed, but I do not love him. I will not take him as a husband.

“And if I did,” she said, as an afterthought, “we would not need to exchange horses to make the marriage valid.”

Irri smiled at her. “It is known.”


	11. Meereen V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany crushed more than the masters when she overturned the slave trade.

Dany turned the scroll over in her hands, frowning at it. 

“Has any word come from the Free Cities?”

“None, Your Worship.” Skahaz mo Kandaq said. He was a former master, but one who had accepted her rule gladly. Even now he prospered from the training of warriors. He had an odious face and a beetled brow, small eyes with heavy bags beneath them, a big nose dark with blackheads, and oily skin, but of all the former noblemen of Meereen he was the most trustworthy. “But we have word of their actions. Even now they plot against you. Outside of New Ghis new levies have been raised and can be seen drilling outside the city walls, warships are being built, envoys have been sent to Volantis in the west, to make alliances and hire sellswords.”

“I have relatives in New Ghis, Your Radiance,” Hizdahr said, “Although I have little enough influence I may be able to speak on your behalf.”

Elza, a weaver among the freedmen, spoke up. “It would be better to burn the legions of New Ghis than treat with them.”

“There are forty thousand men in the iron legions,” Zharn said. He was one of the freedmen who controlled the pyramids and saw that the freedmen and the poor or Meereen had places to sleep. “There are Dothraki enough to conqueror them.”

“I had hoped to avoid war until my dragons are grown,” Dany admitted. At her side, Viserion leaned his long neck up to sniff at the table. Then he leapt up with a single movement and sat on his haunches, studying the men before her. “

“If New Ghis does not march on us, Volantis will,” Hizdahr said. He was the only man of those on her counsel who had seen war. She did not trust him, but occasionally found his advice valuable.

“Kinvara, you have some influence in Volantis, do you not?” Dany asked.

The Red Priestess smiled. “I am the High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis.”

“But you are no longer in Volantis,” Skahaz said, “do you still hold that title?”

“In my absence, I have raised Benerro to Acting High Priest of Volantis,” Kinvara answered, her frighteningly calm gaze turned on the man, “but the position still belongs to me.”

“Can you gather news from Volantis? I would know if we face only their support, or their armies,” Dany asked.

“I will send word to Volantis in tonight’s fires.” 

“Thank you.” Dany turned back to the six who held the highest positions on her counsel. “Is there any other news?”

“Nothing of note,” Elza said, “the people are still getting used to the Speakers, but it seems to go well.”

Of that Dany was pleased. Following the example of King Jaehaerys I she had selected a number of former freedmen to walk among the city and speak to the people. They wrote down the concerns of the people and advised them on the decisions that would be made on their behalf. These they returned to Daenerys’ court so it could be done. At first, Dany had received many who were concerned for the decision, but she upheld the vast majority and slowly the problem tapered off.

“I am glad of it,” Dany said. “Please, stay as long as you like. Kinvara, could I speak with you?”

She and the priestess left the room, Viserion scurrying to climb onto her, and as they walked through the winding corridor, Dany spoke softly to her companion. “It is said that in Volantis the slaves outnumber the freedmen five to one.”

“It is true. There are many in Volantis who would join you if they could.”

“Do many in Volantis serve R’hllor?”

“Many inside the Black Walls keep the old gods of Valyria, but R'hllor is favored outside the Black Walls, both by slaves and free men.” Kinvara said.

“I have something to ask of you.”

“I am here to serve the Chosen of R’hllor.”

“When my dragons are grown I mean to fly west, past the Valyrian peninsula and the Gulf of Grief.”

“To Westeros.”

“Before Westeros lie the Free Cities. Volantis; Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr; and Pentos as well. Much of the warring between myself and Volantis could be prevented if the slaves there knew the truth of the Bay of Dragons, and not the lies that the masters will tell.”

Kinvara did not look at her, but Daenerys thought that she might have smiled. “I will see that it is done, My Queen.”

~oOo~

Ser Jorah meets her in the little garden ajoining her rooms. 

Dany has traded the blue and white of her dress for the earthy tones of Dothraki leathers. Her hair is braided in a single, thick braid down her back, and she carries the blunt training sword that has been crafted by the finest blacksmiths of Meereen. It is suited to her slight stature and lithe frame, and she paid well for the sword.

At first, he had needed to teach her how to hold the sword and how to stand, and Dany had known she had no talent for physical combat. It had not stopped her. She did not need to fight the greatest of knights, only know how to defend herself and those around her should she fall from a dragon’s back. Atop a dragon, a sword was as useless as a stick.

Now, six months after they had started, Dany finally felt as though she was beginning to be a match for a wight.

He has been insisting that she learn to dodge blows as well as block them, and begun to try teaching her to attack. Always they practice as if her opponent will be an accomplished swordsman, and she does not know how to tell him that, should she ever need to use this swordplay, it will not be against knights.

Today her dragons play in the pool as they fight. Once or twice she strikes a blow on him, but she is satisfied to be able to block most of his. Ducking and weaving, she uses her size to avoid him so he cannot bring his strength to bear against her.

By the time they have finished Dany is panting in the heat of the city. “Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said, as she drank from the waterskin, “how long are we to stay in Meereen?”

“Until my dragons are grown. I will need them if I wish to do any conquering.”

“Do you wish to conqueror, Khaleesi?”

“I wish that no one should ever feel chains again. I wish that all the slaves in the world might be freed. If I must be a conqueror to accomplish that then I will.”

“And what of Westeros?”

“Westeros has no slaves, and lies far beyond the Gulf of Grief.” Dany smiled at her knight. “I cannot sail past all of Essos and ignore those who call for me.”

“Westeros waits for you, Khaleesi. The Usurper’s son sits on the Iron Throne.”

“The boy who sits on the throne is not the Usurper’s son, Ser Jorah. The man was cuckolded by his own Kingsguard.” She shook her head. “No, Westeros is at war with itself, but I cannot risk all that I have begun here. Let the high lords kill each other. Perhaps they will all die before I can land.”

“You believe the rumors spread by Stannis Baratheon? He has much to gain by denying the boy’s parentage.”

“Baratheon or Waters, they are not the true king.” Dany answered, more darkly than she meant too. “They will both die long before I arrive, Ser Jorah. You must trust me in this.”

“Yes, Khaleesi.” His look lingered on her, but when she turned to him he had already looked away. He would wonder, she knew, but how to tell him?

Even among her most loyal advisors, Daenerys was alone.


	12. Meereen VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys holds court.

Three days past they had celebrated the coming of the new year. Ever since, Dany had been looking for Ser Barristan.

In an attempt to calm her nerves, she had dressed in a fine white gown, curled around her neck as a collar might, rather than the draped gowns that provided more comfort in the heat, but looked like the masters’ tokar. Then she had called for an open audience in her court today. While usually she only saw those who the Speakers could not satisfy, which had grown less and less. Still, many came to see the silver queen in her pyramid.

Drogon was curled lazily at her feet, close enough to seek her warmth, and Ser Jorah and Rakharo stood with her. Grey Worm would usually be here, but this week he had taken to checking in on the training of new soldiers personally. In his place was Mossador, and Dany had found that one or the other was always with her during the way. Missandei and Qezza had joined her in court today as well, working as translator and scribe. 

“Queen Daenerys,” Missandei said, as a person who had been waiting approached, “this is Erinira. She is one of the freedmen of Meereen.”

The woman clutched her daughter to her side. She could not be more than ten and two, the girl, but even so her mother clung to her as though someone would try to take her. Together they approached and looked up at Daenerys with wide brown eyes.

“Do not be afraid,” Dany said, smiling in hopes of comforting them, “whatever you have to say I will hear.”

“Forgive me, Great Queen,” the mother said, “I told the Speaker my concerns, but all he could offer was to move me. I have nowhere to go.”

“I will help you. Tell me what has happened.”

“I work in a brothel near the pyramid that once was Naqqan’s. Me, I work, and my daughter is allowed to stay with me there because we - the girls, that is - we live there.” She looked down at her daughter then. “The owner of the brothel, Griqnil Naqqan- I’d had my daughter there since she was a little girl. She’s only eleven, you see. And when her moonblood came last he said- he wanted her to start working.

“I told him that she wasn’t his to take. She’d lived there with me and her working, that was never our agreement. He tried to take her from me. She’s all I have. You- please, I don’t know where to go. I need help.”

Dany considered them, carefully schooling her expression. “And do you wish to stay in this brothel? Is there anything else you have skills in?”

“I- I don’t want to stay. I just can’t do anything else.” She was crying, Dany saw.

“If you wish, I can send you across the city to another pyramid. There will be teachers there to help you learn weaving or cooking, and many other things. They can teach your daughter as well.”

“I don’t have anything I can give you. I don’t- we have nothing.”

“All I ask is that after you have been taught that you stay within the cities and help us to prosper, as we have helped you.” Dany replied. “You may, of course, go if you please.”

“Thank you, thank you!” 

“One of my men will take you to the pyramid.”

One of the Unsullied moved to escort them. Dany turned to Missandei. “I had thought all of the slaver’s property was taken from them?”

“It was, Your Grace.”

“Then why is Griqnil Naqqan running a brothel?”

“Griqnil was not of Naqqan, Your Radiance. He was a younger brother some generations ago who married into the merchant class.” Qezza said.

“I do not understand,” Dany turned to the girl. Qezza was only two years younger than she, but far more innocent. She rarely spoke up in crowds. Now she hesitated, “please, explain.”

“A noble lord like Hizdahr zo Loraq is a direct member of the noble house. If his name were Hizdahr Loraq, it would mean he was not a direct member of the house, but still close enough to wear the name.”

“Like the Starks and Karstarks,” Ser Jorah mused. Qezza did not understand, but Daenerys did.

“I see. Mossador, send for this Griqnil Naqqan and have him brought before me. Bring him to the front of the line.”

Her Unsullied went to do as she bid, and it was only three petitioners later that one of her men returned. He came up to her throne and spoke to Missandei. The scribe waited for the latest supplicant to leave before speaking. “The brothel owner has arrived, Your Grace.”

“Forgive me,” she addressed the next man in line. There were still near two dozen, “I must speak with Griqnil Naqqan on the matter of a woman who came before you. I promise you, all will be heard by me, even if I must return tomorrow.”

The man bowed low, “yes, Dragon Queen.”

Griqnil Naqqan was a man of amber skin and eyes, with his hair styled as the noblemen of the Ghiscar. He and his four Unsullied guard approached her throne, while others looked on. At the beginning of the audience, she had been introduced, but this man had not heard it. Missandei’s voice rose from her side. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

“And you are?” Daenerys demanded.

“Griqnil Naqqan.”

“I am told you are the owner of a brothel near the former Naqqan Pyramid?”

“The Pyramid of Naqqan, yes.”

“I am also told that you give the women who work there a place to sleep, and some keep their children with them?”

“Yes. I’d not want whores wandering the streets at night.”

Dany’s eyebrows went up at his tone. “I am also told that when the children of these woman have their blood you take them to become workers as well.”

“What else are they going to do?” He almost growled. Dany could see why they had sent four Unsullied with this man. “Their mothers are whores and their fathers are gone.”

“They may do whatever they please. That is why I have set up schools and training for the freedmen.”

“None of them ever take the offer, in my world.”

“In my world, Daenerys Stormborn conquered Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, and became their queen. She outlawed slavery and gave those who had been slaves a choice in their futures. There was a choice given to those who had been masters as well: to live in my new world or to die in their old one. Tell me, Griqnil Naqqan, what is your world like?”

“My world is one in which people do not want a choice. When one is given they are frightened. They want someone to decide their future for them.”

“Then we live in very different worlds.” Dany turned to Mossador. “Give this man gold for his establishment. Find one of the Speakers and take them to the brothel which I will then own, and have them decide who is to be the new owner from the women who work there. Have those who work there told that they can come to me if they need aid.”

“I do not want to sell the whorehouse,” Griqnil said.

“And I do not want women and children to be abused because you think you are above them. Had you kept your business well and not threatened your workers it would still be yours.” She looked to Mossador. “Tell the Speaker to spread the news of why this was done.”

The man was led away, and Dany returned to her people.

Next was a tall, thin freedman. He bowed before her. “Glorious Queen, I am Halos. I was a slave of Meereen until you came, and now I work as a free blacksmith.”

“I am glad to hear of it. What can I do for you, Halos?”

“After you freed us, I wed a woman called Ghea from Yunkai who had been a slave of the Pyramid of Zhak. Zharnar mo Zhak, brother to the master of the pyramid, owned her. He took her maidenhood, raped her repeatedly, and she became pregnant with his child.” Halos explained. “I ask for Zharnar to be gelded for raping my wife, and I ask for a purse of gold to pay for the raising of his bastard.”

Daenerys nodded her understanding. “The gold you may have, but you must know that I cannot punish every slaver for crimes committed before I came to Meereen. Else they would all be dead. By law, there was no rape, for your wife was his property when he lay with her.”

The man was not pleased, but he bowed nonetheless, and retreated to be given gold by one of the Unsullied. The sentence did not please Dany either, but it was what must be done. 

Then came a boy younger than Dany herself, slight and scarred. He wore a grey tokar with a frayed, trailing silver fringe. “Your Radiance,” he greeted her.

“What can I do for you?” She asked.

“I am Qakleiz. I come to ask for justice.”

“What has happened?”

“The night the pit slaves were freed two of my father’s household slaves rose against him.” His voice broke as he explained, and tears came to his eyes. “One stabbed my father, and the other struck my elder brother over and over. Both died. The one with the blade slashed my face open. Then the slaves raped my mother, and killed her as well. Of the men, one lives in my father’s house now, and one has joined your soldiers. I ask for them to be hanged.”

What was she to do? His family’s fate was terrible, but Dany would not punish slaves for rising up against their masters. 

“I am sorry for your loss, but I cannot hang slaves for turning against those that enslaved them.”

The boy rushed at her, but before he could get far the supplicant behind him reached out, and the boy fell headlong to the floor. As he sprawled there several Unsullied guards quickly surrounded him. 

Dany called out quickly. “Stop! Do not harm him.” Her guards pulled the child to his feet and brough him to kneel before her. “You are only a boy, so I will forget what has happened today. Do you have any family?”

“No,” he bit out, hatred in his gaze as he looked at her.

“Then you must learn a trade to feed yourself. Where ever you wish to go, I will pay for. There are blacksmiths and weavers and field hands. Seek one out and have them teach you the trade.”

Then she turned to the man behind him, who had stopped the child in his charge at her. “Thank you for your aid. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

He reached up and threw back the hood that had hidden his face, and Dany’s heart leapt. 

“The honor is mine, My Queen.” He spoke in the Common Tongue, unlike all of those in Meereen. In her court stood Ser Barristan Selmy, recently sent from the service of the Usurper’s heirs.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, “I know this man. He was one of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and is the Lord Commander of Joffrey Baratheon’s Kingsguard.”

“I have been searching for you, Daenerys Stormborn. To ask your forgiveness. I was sworn to protect your family, and I failed.” He dropped to his knees before her. “I am Barristan Selmy, Kingsguard to your father. Allow me to join your Queensguard and I will not fail you again.”

Daenerys reached to put a hand on Ser Jorah’s arm, as he still held his sword.

“You will swear to me?”

Ser Barristan looked up to meet her eyes. “I will ward you with all my strength, keep your counsel with all my wisdom, obey your commands with all my heart, and do nothing that would bring you harm. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I will give my life for yours if need be. I pledge my life and honor to the Kingsguard, I swear this by Seven Who Are One.”

“You must forgive me, Ser. There was no one to tell me the proper oath.” Even if Viserys had known it, he had not thought she needed to. “But I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods, and the New, and all those of Essos.

“Rise, Ser Barristan Selmy, Queensguard to Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name.”


	13. Meereen VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven, she thought again, despairing. She had no chance against seven, she knew. No chance, and no choice.

It was near sunhigh when one of the Unsullied burst through the door of her counsel room.

The week had been hard on all of them. A small contingent of former slavers had rebelled and killed a small number of freedmen. Before the Unsullied had arrived, they had then attempted to flee the scene. Instead, once their lines broke, two had been captured by nearby freedmen who her Unsullied had trained in the ways of war.

Within the week, she had the names of those responsible and had burned them by the sea, and had their ashes thrown into the harbor. The Green Grace had wailed about them no longer being able to enter the afterlife, but Dany had seen no need for murderers to get an afterlife.

They all started at the sudden appearance of the Unsullied. He came to the head of the table and leaned down to speak to Dany. “My Queen, there is a khalasar soon to arrive outside the city.”

“How many?” Dany had no fear of a khal. Most of the higher ranked Dothraki had considered her Khaleesi Maegi, as they had thought of Doshi long ago. Even without her dragons, they feared her.

“This one is not certain. At least seven thousand. Grey Worm has ordered the men outside the city doubled.”

“There is no need to fear. Fetch me my silver.”

Not an hour after, Daenerys was trotting through the open gates of Meereen with her bloodriders at her side and a dragon on her shoulders. Grey Worm met them there. “The horde are lead by a man named Rhogoro.”

Daenerys knew Rhogoro. She had killed his father, whose khalasar Rhogoro now held. It was a decently sized khalasar, which was why she had summoned all of her khalasar to accompany her. “All will be well, Grey Worm. I will speak with him.”

She nudged her silver forward, toward the head of some 40,000 warriors. The newcomers awaited them, their train nowhere to be seen. Dany changed from Valyrian to Dothraki as she approached them. “Hail, Khal Rhogoro!”

A man with a long braid rode from among his bloodriders at the head of the column. He had great muscles and rode a beautiful dark bay stallion. Rhogoro looked at her with dark eyes. “Khal Daenerys. We did not know you had come this way.”

“I have taken the cities here as my own. Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor. I fear you will find no tribute to be gained here. Will you and your bloodriders come into the city? You are my kos, and I would see you treated well.”

He accepted, bringing his three bloodriders with him, and leaving his men with one of his ko. Together they rode back toward the gates at a leisurely pace. Dany drew her horse alongside Rhogoro’s. “Is there any news from the Sea?”

“After you left, many of the former bloodriders fought. The largest khalasar is 20,000 warriors strong.” He told her. “Still many fight.”

Daenerys regretted not staying longer in Vaes Dothrak and finding men to lead the Dothraki who were trustworthy and honorable. She had so badly wanted to ride to Slaver’s Bay that she had let the Dothraki decide amongst themselves who would lead. 

They came to the Great Pyramid, and Dany escorted them into a hall where food and drink had been laid out. Tonight she would feast the khalasar, but for now she wished to talk to the khal. Rhogoro sat at the table and tried some of the honeyed horseflesh. Grinning, he pointed at Drogon, who sniffed the table from Dany’s shoulders.

“The khalakka has grown!”

“Every day he is larger,” Dany agreed.

“Tell me, why have you taken these cities? The entirety of the grasslands is yours.”

“There are men here who fight against me,” Dany knew that Khal Rhogoro would not understand compassion for the freedmen. That must be for the children, those who would grow up without ever knowing what a slave was, “I took their slaves from them, and they wish to kill me.”

“You should take these men and drag them behind your horse until they are dead.” One of Rhogoro’s bloodriders said.

“There are too many of them for that.” Dany said, stroking Drogon’s scales with one hand as she offered him a bit of peppered horseflesh.

“How many? Over 70,000? We will help you!” Rhogoro replied. She did not doubt his enthuiasm in coming to her aid.

“It is difficult to separate my enemies from my friends.”

“Take a few of them and crush them to death,” another of the bloodriders recommended, “make them a ramp for your horses. Once they see the others die they will no longer defy you!”

“Or you could take them and cut out all of their eyes, then leave them to wander the streets.” A second bloodrider tore into his food as he laughed.

“Once I saw a man cut into pieces and those pieces given to his family.”

“The worst tortue I have ever seen was a man boiled alive. They put him into the boiling water and he screamed. It took two hours for him to die.” Rhogoro added.

“If I kill my friends, why would others side with me?” Dany asked. The methods they suggested were horrifying, to be sure, but how could she kill those who might be loyal? Had she wanted them all dead she would have done that before now.

Rhogoro shrugged lazily. “If they did not want to die with the others they should have told you what they were doing.”

Daenerys did not want to talk about the slavers anymore. She could not burn them or boil them or turn them from the city. There was nowhere they could go that would be less dangerous than where they were now. Nor would she kill those who were trying to change.

“Have you been to the Free Cities after leaving Vaes Dothrak?”

“Not yet. We meant to pass Slaver’s Bay and then return to the Great Grass Sea.”

“You might travel west to Volantis and the Disputed Lands. They will give richly, gold and silks and horses, and all I ask is that all slaves are freed. They are welcome here.

“My father liked Myr,” Rhogoro said, “it would be a good journey.”

That night she feasted the visiting khalasar.

Light flickered over the city, the fires of 118,000 Dothraki. Their whinnies of horses and shouts of the riders could be heard past the thick walls of Meereen, and within the camp they would feast and drink through most of the night.

In the center of the larger camp a tent had been raised for Khal Daenerys. It was not a tall golden pavilion as the Unsullied had raised her. It was a round tent made of a latticework of wood covered with skins, and come morning it would be collected and moved wherever the khalasar pleased.

Dany had drank and laughed with the men for most of the night, her Dothraki handmaidens lost among the tents with riders of their choosing and Missandei at Dany’s side. When she at last retired, she slipped into her tent alone and closed the tent flap behind her. The tent was lit only by candles, and it took her a moment to recognize the figure standing with her back to her.

“Lady Kinvara?”

“Forgive me, My Queen. I arrived early to see the celebrations. What is the occasion?”

Early indeed. Dany had not yet sent for her.

“When two khalasars meet they either fight or feast, and I have no wish to fight my own people.” Kinvara turned, her features darkened in the light cast by the candles. The ruby at her neck glowed faintly in the darkness. Outside, someone ran past the tent. Dany padded to the bed and began to unlace her sandals. “When I was in the House of the Undying they spoke to me. They called me the daughter of death, and bride of fire.”

“They spoke truth, in that. You are R’hllor’s chosen, his bride.”

“And you are R’hllor’s servant.”

“Always.”

“You will help me, you said.”

“I will. I saw the dagger in your heart and the wound left in the world.”

“If I go back to Westeros what will happen?”

“You know what will happen.”

“Must it happen? Or can I change it?”

Kinvara was silent for a moment. “The Lord of Light shows us the truth. It is up to us what we would do with it.”

“So I will die.”

“He would not have brought you back for nothing.”

Daenerys unclasped the golden medallions around her waist and lay her belt on the bed. Her hands were shaking, she found. She looked up into the red woman’s eyes. “And if I do not go, what happens to Westeros?”

“You would not ask if you did not know.”

“And what happens to Essos?”

Kinvara turned to look at the candles beside Dany’s bed. “The Lord of Light shows us only what He will.”

“And what has he shown you?”

“I see the faces of slaves who tear away their collars. I see sunlight shining off of great white wings. I see a great host bathed in dragonfire. I see you, Daenerys Stormborn, with snow on your lips.” She did not move after she finished speaking, juut gazed into the fire.

“I go to Westeros, then.”

“Perhaps the dead come to Essos. I could not say.”

Dany smiled at that. “The Dothraki claim that someday ghost grass will cover the entire world, and then all life will end."

“Perhaps it is true.”

“No.” Dany sank her hands into the fur below her. It was the hrakkar pelt that her sun-and-stars had gifted her. 

It had taken some time to make. It had been chosen as a pelt suitable for Drogo’s khaleesi and taken from the meat so carefully that no holes cut the hide and no lacerations or knife marks threatened to become holes. They had soaked it and spread it on a beam to scrape away all the flesh. All the grease and oil had been removed, and it had been stretched to soften it. It had taken many people many days.

All of this would be gone.

The sweet saffron of Yi Ti and the shimmering silks of Naath. The luscious perfumes of Lys and the sea snails of Braavos. The red wine of the Arbor and the cold castles of the North. The Sunset Sea and the Shadowlands beyond Asshai. The foolish lords of Westeros and the slaves who called her Mhysa. Even the last dragons. 

Death was coming for everyone and everything. A darkness that would swallow the dawn.

Daenerys looked at the red priestess, and Kinvara’s ageless eyes stared back. She remembered the White Walker that had sent a spear through Viserion. Without her the North had no chance. And she had no choice. The duty of a queen was to her people.

“I am the bride of R’hllor, you said. Show me. Help me.”


	14. Meereen VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her handmaids had come to her as slaves, as she had come to Khal Drogo. They had all become more.

“Khaleesi?”

Dany turned from her mirror to find Jhiqui standing in the doorway between her rooms and Dany’s chambers. The older woman lingered for a moment, even as Dany smiled at her. “Come in, Jhiqui. It’s all ready been quite the morning. I was trying to fix my braids.”

“Let me help, Khaleesi.” Dany’s hair had reached just above her shoulders in the year and a half since it had burned away. She took great joy in the Dothraki bells woven into it. There were four, one for Vaes Dothrak and one for each of the cities of the Bay of Dragons. Jhiqui crossed the floor and took the strands of hair from Dany. “Khal Rhogoro’s khalasar means to leave soon.” 

“They have been here for a week, I think he’s eager to proceed to Volantis,” Dany replied, relaxing as her handmaiden’s hands slipped into her braids.

“Do you think we might go with him?”

“I can’t leave. Not yet, my dragons are not old enough to ride.” Dany looked at Jhiqui in the mirror. Her eyes were fixed on silver hair as she braided it. Dany frowned at Jhiqui’s silence. She knew her khalasar tired of waiting here, which was why she had sent some off with her bloodrider to travel the Dothraki Sea and bring her news. “Do you want to go with them?”

Jhiqui’s hands stilled. “I do not want to leave you, Khaleesi. It is only...” 

“You can tell me, Jhiqui. You have ever been my friend.”

Her eyes met Dany’s in the mirror. “I had lain with Khal Rhogoro. He had indicated he might take me as his if I were not… yours.”

Then Dany understood. Her handmaids and bloodriders were the closest thing she had to family among the Dothraki. “If you want to go you may go. You are not a slave, Jhiqui. Khal Rhogoro would make a fine husband.”

“I mean no disrespect-”

“And you have caused none. I will speak with Rhogoro, if that is what you wish.”

A smile stole across her face. “Thank you, Khaleesi. You are very kind.”

Daenerys was not. She should have shown her handmaids more respect, particularly among the Dothraki. But she could change that.

~oOo~

Dany rode into Rhogoro’s camp with her men behind her and a honor guard of her most respectable riders.

While only Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah were officially part of her Kingsguard, her bloodriders were still part of her guard. Dany was closest to Rakharo, but she trusted Jhogo and Aggo with her life. She doubted any of them would want to forswear a wife and children, and so she would not ask it of them. Yet still they were hers.

Riders turned to look as they rode past, and women stilled in their work to watch. Children ran alongside their horses, and Dany heard more than one call her Khaleesi Vizhadi - The Silver Queen. They drew up before the khal’s tent, where he sat out front with his bloodriders. Dany had drank and laughed and shared stories with these men, and all greeted her as warmly as one khal did another.

Once they were seated, Dany insisted Ser Barristan join them, as was the custom of her people. Only once the old knight had taken an awkward seat did Dany join them in mild conversation. “Do you intend to travel to Volantis?”

“Yes, when we leave. It has been long since we came to the bay,

“That is good. One day I may ride on Volantis, and the less they have to defend themselves the better.”

“We will bleed them dry for you,” Rhogoro laughed. “I can spread word as well.”

“You are good to me, blood of my blood. Tell me, Rhogoro, I see no woman in your tent, caring for your household. Where is your khaleesi?” Dany asked.

“I am not married.” 

“Every khal must have a khaleesi,” Dany told him, “she will bare you healthy children and raise them to be strong riders.”

“Where am I to find such a woman?” He motioned to the camp around him. “I have found none in my camp.”

“Why marry within your khalasar?” Dany chided, drinking from the horn of fermented mare’s milk that had been given to her. “My ancestors married outside of their families to gain support.”

“Which khal’s daughter am I to take to wife?” Rhogoro laughed. “Many of them still fight among each other. To favor one would be to bring the wrath of another.”

“I have no daughters, but my handmaids have been with me since I was wed to Khal Drogo. They are as sisters to me, as close to me as my bloodriders.” Dany leaned toward him. “Let me give you a gift, as a symbol of our friendship. Take my handmaiden Jhiqui as wife. She will make you a fine khaleesi.”

Rhogoro seemed to consider this. He took a long drink, and looked into his tent. “I remember the girls given to you. They were daughters of Khal Gorro, who died by Drogo’s hand.”

“They are slaves no more, but free women.”

“ Let me give you a gift in return, Khal Daenerys. I have a young sister, born to my father before he died. She will make you a new handmaid. And a mare from among my herd?”

Daenerys stared at him for a moment. Drogo had paid 40,000 arakhs for her hand in marriage, and while Jhiqui was no Targaryen princess the woman was quick and clever and loyal. A single mare and a child handmaid were nothing, and Dany was not such a fool that she thought Rhogoro would treat well a wife paid for by such. 

A gift for a gift was common among the Dothraki, but one must offer something of worth.

“You insult me.” She sat back in her chair, and next to her Drogon hissed. The khal and his bloodriders froze at her fury. “You offer me a mare and a child for the hand of my dearest friend? She is loyal and strong, worth far more than every horse in your herd.” Dany motioned to the handsome bay at hand. “Better you to refuse me than do such. I will find a better husband for her.”

Dany stood, Drogon shooting a stream of fire onto the ground, where a horsehide caught flame. Ser Barristan, who had no idea what had been said among the Dothraki, understood enough to know that his queen was angry. He began to draw his sword, only to be stopped by Jorah.

“Peace, Daenerys,” Rhogoro insisted, reaching a hand out for her. Drogon snapped at it, and he recoiled from her son. “I meant no offense. This woman, she is dear to you. I will make her my khaleesi, and you shall leave my camp with a perlino stallion that comes from the finest stock of the grasslands. He will make a fine mate for the silver you ride.”

She paused at that. A perlino stallion was a prize, in truth. One did not trade such a horse for a slave. Indeed, it would be fine enough for a khal to ride. It would insult Rhogoro for her to send the horse back to him with Jhiqui, but there was a glorious pinto mare among her herd that would be suitable for her to ride beside her husband.

When she returned to Meereen it was with a little girl and the perlino among her men.

She slowed as they came to the city gates, and soon children ran behind their horses, skipping and laughing. On every side voices called to her, and Dany’s anger calmed at the sight of her people. Some of the freedmen greeted her as “Mhysa” while others begged for boons or favors. Many voices called blessings upon her from gods she had never heard of, while others asked her to bless them instead. 

Dany smiled at them, slowing her horse more. She turned left and right to touch their raised hands, allowing those who knelt to touch her stirrup or legs. Her Speakers reported that the people thought there was good fortune in her touch, and if it gave them comfort then let them touch her.

A pregnant woman came from the crowd, and Dany drew up next to her. She wanted the Mother of Dragons to name her baby. Dany was still torn between refusing and suggesting some old Targaryen name when someone reached up and grabbed her left wrist. She glanced to her side, and saw a tall, pale man with a shaved head.

“Not so hard,” she started to say, but before she could he yanked at her arm. She fell from the saddle, and the ground knocked her breath away. Her mare whinnied and stepped away nervously. Stunned, Dany rolled to her side and pushed herself up…

. . . and then she saw the sword.

“I am so sorry.” He said. 

Dany was only vaguely aware of someone calling for help and the thunder of hooves approaching. An elderly freedman edged forward, but only a step before the Sorrowful Man had slashed at his face. The man fell back, but he had given Dany just enough time and distraction to push herself toward him.

And then, from above, came the fire.

“Queen Daenerys!” Ser Barristan was shouting for her, throwing himself from his horse and rushing forward. Jorah was just behind him, but although he held his sword he looked calmer. It was Rakharo who reached into the last of the flames to drag her away, but there was no danger now. The man was dead and partially melted. 

Her clothes were burnt, only the heaviest of the leather clinging to her, but she was untouched. Dany was just glad that her hair had survived. She would have hated to restart its growth. As the people stared in disbelief, Ser Jorah wrapped his cloak around her. 

“My Queen,” Ser Barristan said, still standing between her and the dead man, “you must stay near the guards.”

Dany turned to look at him. “Have no fear, Ser. He was dead before Drogon burned him.”

Together they turned to look at the burned man. Drogon’s fire had burned him from head to toe, but in his chest was buried a Valyrian steel dagger. Unlike the one he held, it had survived the fire. 

Next to the man her son landed, calling to the sky, and Dany slipped a hand out from the shelter of Jorah’s cloak to touch his scales. He tilted his head into her palm, looked up at her with great red eyes, and Daenerys could feel his heart beating with hers.


	15. Meereen and the Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.

Some two months after Kinvara sailed from the Bay of Dragons another red priest arrived.

Dany had greeted the man warmly, grateful for his arrival so long after the red priestess had left. He was given rooms in the Pyramid of the Dragon and allowed to go where he pleased in her cities. She had heard that many days he joined those who preached the word of the Red God in Meereen. Every night he returned to the pyramid and gazed into the fires.

Not once has he interrupted in the running of the pyramid and her court. Until today. As the sun slipped below the horizon he came seeking her in her rooms atop the pyramid. Dany had eaten there this night, watching her children play in the pool and doze in the trees and float through the sky. Dany has no reason to mistrust a servant of R’hllor, much less one who was sent to her by Kinvara, so she bid him to enter.

Moqorro’s skin is black as Drogon’s scales. He is head and shoulders taller than Dany, and his face is adorned with red and yellow tattoos. His scarlet robes too have orange sleeves, collar, and hems. Most interesting, he carries an iron staff as long as he is tall, with the head of a dragon adorning the top.

Qezza introduced her, as Missandei is buried in an old scroll, and he smiled as he looked her in the face. “Dragon Queen,” he said in the Common Tongue, “I have read the fires this night, and the Lord of Light has shown me Kinvara in her travels.”

“I am grateful for your aid,” Dany had worried, but known better than to expect news from the traditional methods. “What news of Kinvara?”

~oOo~

The Water Gardens of Dorne had been built for the first Princess Daenerys, who had wed the Prince of Dorne. 

Perhaps that had been why Queen Rhaella named her daughter Daenerys, in the hopes of Dorne rallying for her. After the deaths of Elia and her babes, Dorne would have good reason to hate the Baratheon King. Good reason to tie themselves to the little Targaryens. And of all the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne would be most successful should they make the attempt.

One did not land at the Water Gardens. Ships landed three leagues to the east, at Sunspear, and then took the coastal road west. There were many caravans, but she joined none of them. A temperamental chestnut mare from among the Dothraki herd had accompanied her on her travels, and there was no such horse in all of Westeros. It wouldn’t do to let her waste away while her rider sat in a cart.

As she approached, she found the area pleasant. The day was slowly cooling with the approaching night, and a salt breeze came from the sea. Looking up as she neared the palace she could see terraces shaded by blood orange trees. The laughter of children filled the air. It seemed this was a place of peace.

Pale pink marble paved the courtyard, extending as far as she could see into the gardens. In the courtyard, she dismounted as a guard approached her. He spoke in the Common Tongue. “How can I assist you, my lady?”

“I am here to speak with Prince Doran Martell.”

He frowned at that, shifting his grip on his spear. “Does he expect you, then?”

“No. But he will see me. Tell him it is about his sister. The Princess Elia."

As she had said, the prince would see her. The guard stepped away to speak with other men, and stood nearby to keep an eye on her while she loosened her horse’s saddle and pet her nose. After a short while, four more guards had arrived to escort her into the palace. She was led through the gardens paved with marble and filled with pools and fountains, and into the buildings beyond.

At last she was brought into an office with sand-colored walls and a fine wooden desk at the opposite side. The man behind the desk was in his early fifties, with greying hair and reddened joints in his hand. He watched her with dark, calculating eyes as she entered.

“You stand before Prince Doran of House Nymeros Martell, Lord of Sunspear. My Prince, this is the woman who asked to speak with you.” One of the guards who had escorted her in said.

“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, my lady. We do not often have red priestesses at the Water Gardens.” He said, carefully polite.

She folded her hands into her sleeves and smiled. “I am Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light.” 

“Welcome to Dorne, Lady Kinvara. Would you like wine?”

“Thank you, Prince Doran.” It was Dornish wine, not her preference, but better than others she had been given. She took the glass and the offered seat, arranging her skirts as she sat. It was warmer in the office than it had been outside, but the man seemed not to notice the sweltering heat.

“Did you come from Volantis to proselytize? It is a long way.”

“I have traveled a very long way to bring you this.” She drew a letter from her side and offered it to him. “Farther even than from Volantis.”

Doran took the letter and turned it over in his hands before he broke the black seal and began to read. She was party to the contents of the letter, but not the exact words. Still, it would be difficult not to notice the blackened edges of the paper and the dark stain in the center. As he read his face slowly drained of color. After he had read it, perhaps more than once, he folded the letter and placed it on his desk.

“Please, clear the room,” he bid.

The servants stopped what they had been doing immediately and quickly exited the room, followed by the guards. Only one man, large and dark-skinned with a poleaxe on his back, remained. It was not her business who he allowed to be party to the secrets of his kingdom, so Kinvara sipped at her wine and waited. Only once the last person had left and the door was shut behind them did he continue.

Prince Doran touched the paper with reverent fingers. “Fire and blood.” He said. “You come from Meereen.” He leaned forward, over the desk and toward her, as though he feared that someone lingered at the windows to listen. “From Daenerys Targaryen.”

“My Queen remembers the deaths of Aegon and Rhaenys, her brother’s children, and of their mother Elia Martell. Had they lived, Daenerys might have seen Rhaenys as a sister, might have wed Aegon. House Targaryen mourns their loss. She sends me with news for those who would be her friends in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“News of the future, if this is to be believed.” Doran picked the letter back up, read it again, trying to commit the words to memory, for a missive such as this could not be allowed to remain whole. “The king’s wedding and his death, the Imp’s trial and my brother’s murder, Myrcella and Trystane… and a red priestess.”

“Daenerys dreams, as Daenys once did.” Kinvara smiled at him, then placed her wineglass on the desk between them. “When the dragons are grown the queen will come west. She will overthrow the lions in Kings Landing and the wolves in the North, just as she cast down the slavers in their cities. Queen Daenerys means to honor the pact between Martell and Targaryen.”

“I must not send Oberyn to Kings Landing.” Doran sat back in his chair. “Is that what she means to say?”

“Neither the queen nor I can tell you what should be done.” Kinvara had repeated this often, but so few learned. “All we can offer are the visions granted to us by the gods.”


	16. Meereen IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guests arrive in the Bay of Dragons.

Dany was teaching Drogon to concentrate his fire with her ladies as onlookers when one of Grey Worm’s men came to the terrace.

He came to his commander’s side and spoke in a low tone. Grey Worm dismissed him, and then left his position at the doorway to approach them. “My Queen, a cog arrived in the harbor. Fifty spearmen and five riders from Westeros come to speak with you.”

All of her ladies turned to look at him. Dany tossed the last piece of meat to Drogon, and turned to her apartments. She had never had guests in her past life, what could it mean? “Qezza can you fetch my blue and white pleated dress? And Irri, will you help me with my braids?”

In short order Daenerys was dressed in soft linen and leather boots, her hair pulled out of her face with loose twists framing her head. Together with her handmaids she went down the marble stair to her audience room. With two knights, Grey Worm, and Rakharo behind her, her ladies settling on the step in front of her. In the time it had taken her to prepare the men had arrived, and Dany motioned to the Unsullied to allow them in.

The doors were opened, and Daenerys watched as they approached her throne. 

Three of the women she knew. Obara in leather armor with her hair pulled back into a tight knot; Nymeria, slender and graceful in Dornish silks; and Tyene with her blue eyes and blonde hair. The last of them she looked at twice before recognizing Ellaria Sand. She wore no armor and had long hair was loose around her face. Nor was she on guard as she always had been in Dany’s company. 

The man with them could only be Oberyn Martell. He was tall and fit, with lustrous black hair, and his daughter’s eyes. His eyes were fixed on Drogon, the size of a small horse, who dozed while draped over her feet. When they rose to her face he smiled broadly.

Missandei greeted them in the Common Tongue. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, Great Khal of the Dothraki, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.

“Who comes before the queen?”

Oberyn Martell gave a sweeping bow. “Your Grace, I have the honor of being Prince Oberyn of House Martell.”

“You have no titles?” Dany asked. Tyene had called him the Red Viper, once, and then become very quiet and very sad.

“None that would match the Mother of Dragons.” His smirk made Dany smile back, the compliment striking true although she knew pretty words for what they were.

“And your companions?”

“This is Ellaria Sand.” Dany smiled at the woman, who looked so different than she once had. “And my daughters: Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene.”

“Meereen is glad you have come, Prince Oberyn. Be welcome as my family, for you are brother to Princess Elia, my own brother’s wife.” Dany stood, her blue gown long and lovely. He is a handsome man, this Oberyn Martell, with a smile and swagger that remind her of Daario. “Qezza, please, see that our guests and their men have suitable rooms. Prince Oberyn, will you and your companions join me?”

Daenerys lead them to the terrace beyond the audience room, her guards following behind. Prince Oberyn glanced over them only briefly, but she could see the curiosity. Here there was a view of most of Meereen, the pyramids and dusty streets alike. Dany sat at a bench that had been used to see highborn guests before she had taken the pyramid, and the Dornish settled around her. “Tell me, Prince Oberyn, what brings you to Meereen?”

“My brother, Doran, is the Lord of Sunspear. He heard of you, alone, all the way across the world, and sent us to you.” Oberyn fixed her with those clever eyes of his. She had once thought Nymeria had a snake’s look. Now she saw where it came from. “He bid me to give you this.”

She took the paper from his hands gently. The parchment was written in the Common Tongue. Dany unrolled it slowly, studying the seals and signatures. When she saw the name Ser Willem Darry, her heart beat a little faster. She read it over once, and then again.

“It is a secret pact," Dany said at last, to the Dornish who watched her carefully and to the knights behind her, "made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper's men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness." She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for himself. "The alliance is to be sealed by a marriage, it says. In return for Dorne's help overthrowing the Usurper, my brother Viserys is to take Prince Doran's daughter for his queen."

“Dorne has ever been loyal to the Targaryens.” Oberyn said.

“My Queen, if Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear as he once smashed Pyke, and claimed the heads of Prince Doran and the Red Viper … and like as not, the head of this Dornish princess too." Ser Barristan said.

“There is no Dornish princess,” Oberyn corrected, “Princess Arianne died not long after this pact was made. But my brother does have a son. And House Targaryen has a daughter. Sail with us back to Westeros, wed my nephew, and Dorne will see you on the Iron Throne.”

“An intriguing offer,” Dany acknowledged, “and what else does Dorne offer?”

“Dorne has fifty thousand spears to pledge to your cause,” Obara said, staring at her with dark eyes. “Fifty thousand men to see a Targaryen on the throne.”

“Westeros is full of those who would see the Boy King cast from the throne. I have something greater in mind,” Dany considered the older woman, “Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell – they're all just spokes on a wheel. This one's on top, then that one's on top, and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground.”

Standing, she stepped closer to the edge of the terrace, Meereen spread out beneath her. “Look at my city. What do you see?”

“I see a city of strange men with strange gods and stranger hair, of slavers wrapped in fringed tokars, where grace is earned through whoring, butchery is art, and dog is a delicacy.” Prince Oberyn said. 

“You are well traveled, Prince Oberyn,” Dany allowed, “but is that all there is?”

“It is said you freed the slaves and cast the slavers from their wealth, but it will always be the Harpy's city,” he replied, “You cannot not be a harpy. You are a dragon.”

“I am a dragon,” she agreed, “I am the Breaker of Chains. When I rode into Meereen the slaves I had helped to gain their freedom called me Mhysa. Mother. Am I to leave my children to their chains?”

“Your people across the sea call for you,” Oberyn told her. “As you say the small folk suffer when the high lords war. The small folk lie dead in their fields, their lands burned by those who took your throne and murdered my sister. Winter will come with no end to war, and those who survived the battles will die of starvation in their fields.”

“The Westerosi need me.” Dany thought of the look in the eyes of the Northern people as she saved them. By the time she had come to Kings Landing she did not expect to be seen as a savior, even though the queen they followed burned their priests and murdered their king. “The slaves need me. What do you know of being offered into slavery?”

“I know little of slavery, it is true, but I know of you. You spent your childhood in exile, impoverished, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who sold your maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. You are not that frightened girl anymore. You are a queen.”

“I know what it is to be bought and sold.” Dany My sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Now I am a queen in my own right. I came to Slaver’s Bay and now it is the Bay of Dragons. I came to Vaes Dothrak Drogo’s widow and left the Great Khal. I came to Khal Drogo a penniless princess and from his pyre I hatched dragons. Meereen is to be my home until my dragons are grown, but afterward I will go west. West to Westeros, yes, but there are many cities between Meereen and the Narrow Sea. Cities of slavers.”

“Cities of Essos. Meereen is not your home, and never will be.” He told her. “You were not born in Essos.”

“Westeros is not my home, Prince Oberyn. To Essos I will always be a Westerosi whore, and to Westeros I will always be a foreign queen.” It was hard to forget how they had looked at her, the Starks and Lannisters alike. She stepped closer to him. The Dornishman was taller than she, but here on her terrace in a soft gown and steady boots she was every inch a queen. “I will have Westeros. But I do not mean to stop the wheel. I will break the wheel.”

“You cannot break the wheel if first you are not atop it.” Nymeria said.

Neither she nor Oberyn moved. Daenerys spoke first. “A queen does not bargain with her bannermen. You rally to my banner. When I land in Westeros I will gladly take a Dornish Prince for my king. But I will not be led like a child.

“Prove to me your loyalty. Help me. When my dragons are grown I will free the slaves from their chains and burn all those who stand in my way. But I will not risk my children until they are large enough to defend themselves.

“Otherwise there will be no second Field of Fire for my enemies. Only dead dragons.”


	17. Meereen X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just self-indulgent Daenerys chapters now.

After Oberyn’s questioning at dinner, Dany had agreed to take them out to her camp beyond the walls of Meereen.

She woke before the sun in her wide wooden bed on the highest floor of her pyramid. Its warmth in the face of the cool dawn made Dany want to snuggle deeper into it. What had felt inadequate in her past life was now comforting and familiar. Missandei slept beside her, as Irri did other nights. She could not sleep alone anymore without nightmares.

Instead, Dany sat up, yawning. Out on the terrace she could hear the calls of her children, and beside her Missandei stirred. Slipping from the silks, she padded over to her closet. By the time she had selected Dothraki riding leathers from among her clothes Irri had appeared from her own room.

“Would you ask Lady Ellaria if she would like to sit with us?” Dany asked.

“Yes, Khaleesi.” Irri stepped out, and Dany sat on the edge of her bed to tug on her trousers. 

Missandei and Qezza had declined to join them, as neither were fond of horseback, but still Qezza fetched her a pair of sturdy riding boots and Missandei helped to braid her hair back. As they worked, Irri returned with Ellaria Sand.

The woman wore Dornish silks, orange and flared out at her shoulders, and in comparison to Dany’s earthy-toned Dothraki clothes she was the sun. She smiled at Dany as she entered, hands folded in front of her. “My Queen.”

“Lady Ellaria, please, sit,” Dany bid, “this is Qezza Galare and that Missandei of Naath. You’re met Irri? They are my companions.”

“I am honored to meet you,” Ellaria said. 

“The honor is ours. Please, sit. Do you need anything?”

“I was just going to finish my hair. Might I use your mirror?”

“Would you like any assistance?” Missandei asked.

“I was just going to braid it back.”

“Let me help, Irri is better than I am at weaving in the bells.” 

“The bells?”

Dany picked up one of the little silver bells in front of the mirror. “The Dothraki bells.”

Ellaria took it from her, and turned it over to look inside it. “I’ve seen them in the hair of your guards. Why do they wear them?”

“The Dothraki add a bell to their hair every time they win a battle,” Dany explained, “I have four of them.”

“When they lose do they remove a bell?”

“They cut their braid off. Few men never have their hair cut.”

Ellaria’s gaze slipped to her hair, shorter than any noblewoman of Westeros. It was almost shorter than Arya Stark’s hair had been when Dany had seen her last. “What are your bells for, Your Grace?”

“I killed the Dothraki khals in Vaes Dothraki,” Dany handed one of the bells to Irri as she spoke, “and I conquered Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen.”

“When you conquer Westeros, do you mean to add one bell or seven?” Ellaria asked, placing the bell back on the counter where Irri could reach it. 

Dany meant to add a bell for the Night King and a bell for Cersei Lannister, but saying so would bring up too many questions. “Only those for battles won, Lady Ellaria. Those who rally to my banner such as Dorne are my allies, not my enemies to fight.” 

Dorne and the Reach and the Iron Isles, and if Daenerys was particularly lucky the Vale and North as well. If she was not then she would have a bell for them as well. Or perhaps two.

~oOo~

It was a few hours past dawn when Dany led her new again allies to the Dothraki camp. Irri and her bloodriders joined them, but Prince Oberyn seemed more interested in the camp itself. 

While he and Jhogo spoke in broken Common, Ellaria nudged her horse closer to Dany.

“The camp goes on as far as the eye can see. How many are there in your horde?”

“There are forty thousand riders, but a little over a hundred thousand people including the women, children, and elderly.” Dany told her, from the back of her silver. “When my husband fell from his horse upon the Great Grass Sea his khalasar scattered. I reformed them.”

“Their horses are heavier than those of Dorne,” the Dornishwoman said, turning to look at a cluster of mares tied close to their path.

“Dothraki horses are the finest in all the world,” Irri interjected, as she rode up alongside the Dornishwoman.

“Perhaps, but they are not suited to the desert so well as the horses of Dorne.” Ellaria looked down at the legs of Irri’s bay. Her own mount was a glorious lithe chestnut with a coat that shone like the sun and a head that tapered at the nose. Irri rode a well-built, classically Dothraki mare that any warrior would have been proud of.

“Our horses are made to carry the weight of a warrior in the field,” Irri told her, “a rider kills his enemies from horseback.”

“That is true. Sand steeds are rarely ridden by knights to war.”

Two children ran across their path, one pointed at Dany and called to the other. As they ran on, Ellaria looked at Dany. “What do they say?”

“Khaleesi Vizhadi they called me. The Silver Queen.”

“For your hair? I have not seen any other in the camp with the features of the Valyrians.”

“The Dosh Khaleen say that the Dothraki came from beyond the Bone Mountains four hundred years ago.” Dany told her. “The only Valyrian blood in their veins is from those they have conquered. A few children may have some, but none enough to truly show.”

“There are many children,” Ellaria said, as they passed a group of young bows learning to show their bows from horseback, “your people seem quite prosperous, My Queen. Did Khal Drogo have no heir to take his place?”

Dany’s throat felt tight at the question. She adjusted her reins to hide the pause she needed to control her voice. “When a khal dies, his kos fight among themselves to take his place if there is no adult son. In many cases the khalasar will splinter. Drogo- we had only just wed, and our child had died in my womb. There was no one to take his place. His kos were not the men that Drogo had been.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace.” Ellaria’s dark eyes softened at the mention of the babe. Of Rhaego. “I lost a child as well, between my four daughters. It is never easy.”

“Four daughters?” Dany asked, eager to change the subject. “I see only three.”

“Obara, Nym, and Tyene are not mine. Our children are at the Water Gardens in Dorne. Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza they are called. Loree is only six.”

“You must miss them.”

“Dearly, but the chance to cross the world and meet the Dragon Queen,” Ellaria laughed, “I could not turn that down.”

“I am glad you came. I have no family since Viserys’ death, and it is good to meet those who were once bound to me by blood.”

Behind them, hooves quickened, and Dany looked to see that Prince Oberyn had nudged his blood bay stallion forward to reach them. He grinned at Daenerys, and she thought that his smile had likely won and broken many hearts. “Your men say that the last good fight they had was at a wedding.”

“Jhiqui wed Khal Rhogoro some months past,” Dany agrees, “the Dothraki say it is not a wedding without at least four deaths.”

“I think I would like these Dothraki weddings,” Obara said, “certainly better than the ones in Westeros.”

“Their men are better than the ones in Westeros as well,” Nymeria added, gaze trailing over the riders they passed.

A trill came from above, and although the Dothraki did not stir Prince Oberyn stood in his saddle to get a better look at her children overhead. Drogon floated above her silver, and Dany reached out to touch his mind. Somewhere she cannot see, Rhaegal and Viserion are fighting over a bit of sheep, swooping and swirling and breathing harmless dragonfire on each other. Drogon prefered to watch his mother; he knew that she would not let him go unfed, and he sensed her uncertainty of the newcomers.

“Dragons,” Prince Oberyn said, and there is awe in his voice, “Ellaria, look.”

They had only a glimpse of her children when they came yesterday, for Dany always liked to keep a dragon in court to remind the Meereenese who they dealt with. Had she known how to control Drogon in her first life, which slavers would have dared to oppose her?

“They will roast you, father, if you irritate them,” Obara scoffed. 

“They are one of the great wonders of the world!” He told her, but her reluctance could not remove his smile. “Do you not care that this is the first time any Westerosi has seen dragons in hundreds of years?”

Nymeria mumbled something to Tyene, who giggled like a young girl. Obara grinned as well, although she could not have heard what they said. She was further from them than Dany. Oberyn sighed, and turned to her. “Forgive my daughters, My Queen. They have grown lazy after spending so long in Dorne.”

Nymeria yelped a protest, and Ellaria chuckled softly beside Dany.

After spending much time with these women in her past life, Dany cannot remember them ever being so happy. Prince Oberyn is well-loved by his family, that much is clear. Nymeria and Obara teased their father, while Tyene was more passive, but as biting as either. Ellaria was content to sit and listen to them.

It was difficult to remember how they once were, compared to the people they are now. 

Perhaps Dany has already done some good in the world.


	18. Meereen XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only three dragons in the great wide world.

It took Oberyn three weeks to convince Dany to properly introduce him to her children.

Dany’s invitation to the terrace beyond her audience room extended to Oberyn and all three of his daughters. Ellaria had already spent enough time with Dany that she had seen Drogon and Viserion a dozen times. She was more comfortable with them than Qezza was, but the dragons were still unused to her.

By the time Oberyn and his daughters came up the stairs to join them Dany and her ladies had settled into the benches next to Daenerys. Qezza, in a lovely green dress styled after Dany’s own, settled into the bench next to her with one foot curled under her. Missandei sat across from her with a straight back, hands folded into her lap. Irri simply dropped into the grass at Dany’s feet.

Oberyn arrived with Ellaria on his arm, his daughters trailing behind, and Dany brightened at the sight of her. “Ellaria, Prince Oberyn, thank you for joining us.”

“The honor is ours, Queen Daenerys,” Oberyn said.

“Oberyn is eager to see them up close,” Ellaria said, abandoning him to sit beside Dany on her wooden bench. Nymeria and Tyene took up the seat next to their father, while Obara sat on the opposite end of Qezza’s.

Ellaria’s paramour joined Missandei, remaining a respectful distance from the scribe. Oberyn had eyes only for the sky, but Dany’s gaze lingered just a moment on him. Sometimes at night when Daario slept beside her Dany found herself remembering the way his broad grin lit his face. That, and the way his clever eyes tracked her every movement.

A few times she had allowed herself to think that it would be like if she allowed him to kiss her. The thought was exciting and disturbing all at once. It was too great a risk. Once Tyrion had told her to marry a man of the Seven Kingdoms, and she had fallen in love with one. Look where that had taken her. Under his fastidious manners Oberyn Martell was a man with a reputation. Under the smiles and jests he was dangerous. Khal Drogo could be cruel as well, and there was never a man more dangerous. She had come to love him all the same.

Dany pushed the thought from her mind. For all his un-subtle flirting, Oberyn was Ellaria’s. She would not insult the woman who had been a loyal ally in one life and who was becoming a good friend in this one for the affections of a man.

It took only a moment for Daenerys to find her connection to Drogon, stronger than that of his siblings, and she called all three to her. Viserion landed first. She had been dozing on the terrace of Dany’s chambers and only had to open her wings and float down. Ever affectionate, she did her best to crawl into her mother’s lap even though she was too large to do so properly. 

Drogon was next, loyal as expected. He was heavier than his siblings, but once he was on the ground he came up behind Daenerys to touch his muzzle to her shoulder and nuzzle at her face like a horse-sized cat. Last of the three was Rhaegal,by far the wildest. She came to where Irri sat at Daenerys’ feet and curled her body behind the Dothraki girl, sniffing at those that surrounded her mother.

Wrapped up in her children, Dany could only laugh. “Here, get down Viserion, I have a treat for you.”

The first piece of meat went to Viserion, who took it gingerly in her jaws and dropped to the ground to breathe fire over it so she could eat. “The white-and-gold is Viserion. She’s the smallest of them.”

Next she fed Drogon, tossing the food gently into the air, where he roasted it mid-flight and then pounced on it as it landed. “The black-and-red is Drogon.”

Rhaegal lept into the air, her wings causing a buffet of wind to send Dany’s hair flying back. He caught his prize and “And that is Rhaegal.”

“They are glorious.” Oberyn said, and of all the compliments that Dany had been given in this life and the last one, none matched the awe on his face as he watched her children.

“Are you pleased now, father?” Nymeria laughed at him.

“Here, you can touch them,” Dany pet the ridge of spines on Viserion’s back, the dragon not even looking up at the touch.

Oberyn leaned forward from his seat and slowly raised a hand toward the white dragon. Viserion lifted her head, still gulping down the last of the meat, and sniffed at him. The man stilled, waiting, until Viserion - sensing oncoming affection and tired of waiting - pressed her head into his hand and rubbed it along her neck.

“It reminds me of a very large cat,” Ellaria said.

“Look at this one,” Oberyn said, as he pointed at Drogon, “he wants more food.”

Her son was perched next to her bench, forelegs up beside her and tail slowly sweeping the grass behind him. When Dany turned to look at him he croaked, and Dany laughed. “Drogon always wants more food. He is the largest of the three.”

“Their names, Rhaegal, Viserion, and Drogon? The first one is a Targaryen name,” Oberyn reached a hand out to Drogon, who drew his sinuous neck back and surveyed the man with red eyes.

“I named them for Rhaegar, who died on the green banks of the Trident; for Viserys, who was cruel and weak, but my brother still; and for Khal Drogo from whose pyre they hatched.”

Daenerys had considered giving her children new names for this new life, but had decided against it. It was her who had been born twice, once from the death of her mother and once from the death of her child. The dragons had been born of Drogo’s horse and Rhaego, Quaro and Qotho, Haggo and Cohollo. Let her children keep their names. It was she who had walked twice from the ashes of her husband’s pyre. 

Sometimes, in the stillness of the morning she could hear Mirri Maz Duur’s voice.  _ Only death can pay for life.  _ Why was it always the life of her child that must be sacrificed?

When Oberyn had stopped petting Viserion he had turned to Ellaria’s gentle hands. Now Rhaegal lifted their head from the ground to sniff at the man’s hand, still stretched out to Drogon. The Dornishman’s dark eyes met those of molten gold, but when he moved to pet Rhaegal the dragon opened his mouth and his teeth gleamed like black needles.

“Peace, Rhaegal,” Dany chided. 

Her child unfolded green wings to lunge into the air. Of all the three Rhaegal was the one least likely to enjoy petting. In her last life she had born scars on her right arm from her time in Qarth and Rhaegal’s claws holding her shoulder. Shrieking, he swooped over them and landed on the railing above them.

“You must forgive Rhaegal. They’ve never been one for petting by strangers.” Dany told her companions.

Nymeria and Tyene were now petting Viserion, who was still curled about Ellaria. Obara eyed the dragonling warily from her seat, making no move to join in. Oberyn had convinced Drogon to allow him to pick up one clawed forepaw and examine it. 

“I have seen one of the wonders of the world,” he said, eyes fixed on Drogon, “Thank you, My Queen.”


	19. Meereen XIII

Daario was gone, off to Astapor to gather information and put down a small rebellion.

It was nothing, Dany had told him, just men who disliked the decisions of the Queen’s Counsel of Astapor. She had also told him that he was to seek Cleon the Butcher, a freedman who had been a slave owned by Grazdan mo Ullhor. He was to find evidence of his wrongdoing and bring it to her. It would not do to allow those he protested against to sentence him. 

Nor would it do to punish a man for something he had done in another life. That was why she had sent the Stormcrows and not the Unsullied. The sellswords did better with subterfuge than any of the others in her army. Daario would find the truth for her, no matter if the man was guilty or not.

And now Dany was alone in her rooms, her paramour gone and restlessness building inside her. 

She could not call for her kos, for a khal did not sleep with his bloodriders. Nor would she lead on Ser Jorah for all that she knew he would gladly come to her bed. Doreah was alive again, but Dany did not desire her as she had before she betrayed her in Qarth. Perhaps it was unfair to the woman to blame her for what she had not done, but it did not change how Dany felt.

In the dark, she was left alone to picture her lover.

The picture of Daario in her mind was lithe and tall, with a warrior’s calloused palms. His face is touched by the sun, and his hair thick and black around his head. He had stripped off his belt, dagger dropping heavily to the floor, and thrown his shirt down after it. He had no shame in his handsome body. 

He kissed her, pressed her back into her bed. Dany closed her eyes as his hands traced down her sides, opened them when he caught her leg in his hand and looked up into his black eyes as he-

Daenerys’ eyes snapped open, and she sat up suddenly in her bed. Black eyes? Daario Naharis was a man of Tyrosh and he had blue eyes, in this life and the last. Realizing what she had done, Dany threw the silk blankets of her bed aside and pushed herself from the bed, fled her own daydreams.

A bedrobe of Myrish lace was draped over the chair at the side of her bed, and she tied it around her waist before padding barefoot to the entrance of her rooms. Long ago, in her voyage to Slaver’s Bay from Qarth, she had learned that Irri had gentle hands and a sweet mouth, and no aversion to lying with women.

Perhaps that was still true. And, if not, then she would at least be suitable company for a sleepless khaleesi.

~oOo~

“My people do not kill,” Missandei said, as she pinned Obara’s dusty brown braid to her head so that it would not shake loose. “Not even in defense. We eat no flesh and make no war.”

“Seems foolish to me to let slavers tear you from your homes and families rather than learn to fight.” Obara replied flatly. She was seated on the floor of Dany’s chambers, having been dragged in by her sisters.

“If we were to change ourselves for the sake of pirates, do they not win anyway? And we are not defenseless. The Lord of Harmony has sent his messengers to protect us.”

“His messengers?” Ellaria asked. “What sort of god is this?”

“The Naathi believe that he is a giant who is attended by slender maidens with butterfly wings. He sends his servants to protect his people, and all outsiders who encounter these butterflies die.” 

“But you were taken from the Isle, were you not?” Nymeria asked. The woman was dressed in yellow silk so thin the shape of her body underneath could be made out.

“Some pirates have learned that the butterflies are only active during the day. Those who live near the center of the island often are able to convince the messengers to sleep within their villages. The outskirts of the island are not so lucky.” MIssandei looked over to where Ellaria was gently combing out Dany’s hair. “Does Dorne have gods?”

Ellaria hummed, considering. “The Rhoynar came to Westeros and brought with them their gods, such as Mother Rhoyne. Only those in the very south of Dorne worship such gods, in open or secret. My House, and most others, worship the Seven.”

“What are these seven gods like?”

“There is only one god, with seven faces. One prays to the face of the god they need, to the Maiden for a good marriage or to the Warrior for strength in battle.”

“Too many gods,” Irri said from her place beside Ellaria, “how to remember which one to pray too? The Dothraki worship the Great Stallion.”

“A horse god for a people who are born and die on horseback,” Nymeria mused, “how fitting.”

“You would not like the gods of Ghis, then?” Qezza asked. “There are nine of them, each different.”

“How do you know which to pray too?” Irri said.

“By who you are. There is a god for soldiers, a god for rulers, a god for slaves and children.” Qezza explained. “Maidens of noble houses worship Sarazza, a beautiful woman with wings. She is the patron goddess of marriage and family.”

“There a god for slaves?” Dany asked.

“Anda is a woman with the head of a bird, bound in chains. She is the goddess of children and slaves.” Qezza lay Daenerys’ dark blue gown over the bed and considered the way the top draped over her shoulders. “The Red God has gained favor, of late, but once she was worshiped all throughout the city.”

“She is only the god of children now, I fear.” Dany said.

“There are those in the Free Cities who worship the gods of Old Ghis as well.” Qezza released the dress to vanish back into the wardrobe. 

“Which god do you worship, Daenerys?” Ellaria asked her, as her hands began to braid her hair back, the ribbon of a bell intertwined in the strands she held.

In truth, it mattered little to her. Which god had brought her back? She would pay them tribute. Or was that magic itself? The Valyrian gods were a distant memory, the Red God a useful tool, the gods of Old Ghis dying at her own hands. She had wed Drogo under the Great Stallion and Hizdahr under the Harpy. Jon Snow she would have married by his forest gods or those of the southern six kingdoms, or even by Mother Rhoyne had he asked. Little good it would have done her.

“The pleasure goddess of Lys, the battle goddess of the Unsullied. What does it matter?” Daenerys said. “Let the one which hatched my dragons reveal themselves and I will kneel to them.”

Ellaria laughed. “The pleasure goddess of Lys is a silver-haired violet-eyed beauty. I doubt that there are none in Lys who would name you as her.”

Dany flushed, amused and surprised, and when she met Ellaria’s eyes in the mirror the woman smirked at her.

~oOo~

Qezza was a clever girl, in the end.

She was three years younger than Dany, but she was also one of the few former noble girls who had the ability to dress and spend her time the way she liked. Thus it was she who turned the garment that had once been the tokar into a gown. Having learned sewing from Jhiqui and Irri, she had given her tokars belts and sleeves and necklines, and sewn the long trail behind her shoulder.

Dany had banned the tokar because it was one of the trappings of a master. If this city - if all of the world - intended to become not masters and slaves, but one people, then there could be nothing to seperate them. All must have the same opportunities to work and prosper and live. Slaves could not attack former masters, and masters could not attack former slaves.

In a few generations the tokar would be nothing but a gown, a remnant of the Ghiscari culture. Right now any who wore it would be known and targeted, or would become oppressors again.

And so when Qezza turned her tokars into gowns that resembled Dany’s own, and the Graces of Ghis followed behind, she thought that perhaps she should command that they be banned. Instead, she had left the decision to her counsel - those that now called themselves the Queen’s Counsel of Meereen. She was not here to rule her freedmen. 

_ Mhysa _ they called her, and so Daenerys had dedicated herself to being their mother. The one to bring life and freedom. Let them rule themselves, but so long as they needed her to be  _ Mhysa _ , the one they could turn to for protection, she would be.

Qezza’a hands worked gently, brushing out her hair until it shone like spun silver.

“How are the Graces chosen?” Daenerys asked, as their conversation about Dragonstone began to fade.

“When daughters are born to noblemen they are shown to the Green Grace, who is guided in those she selects.” Qezza had not been chosen, but one of her sisters had been. “Now I suppose they will choose from among all of the people.”

“There are other religions within Meereen. Many worship the Red God.”

“None of the noble blood did.”

“But now it is not only nobles who will be chosen.”

Qezza’s fingers fumbled in her hair. “Only those who follow the gods of Ghis would present their daughters.” She reasoned. 

“Was it so in the days of Old Ghis?”

“Many girls were presented to the faith when Ghis was a great empire,” the girl said, “it is said that the mother of Grazdan the Great was a Green Grace.”

Dany said nothing to that. Old Ghis had fallen five thousand years ago, shattered by a young Valyria. The gods of Ghis were dead, and so too its people; those of Slaver’s Bay were mongrels.. Even the Ghiscari tongue was largely forgotten; the slave cities spoke the Valyrian of their conquerors, or what they had made of it.

Her eyes found Doreah, curled up on Dany’s bed and sewing a gown with nimble hands. Their gazes caught, and Dany saw the knowledge that she had of the legendary civilization of the Ghiscari reflected there. Both were too kind to tell Qezza such.

“Empires rise and fall,” Doreah said, “Qarth and Old Ghis and Valyria all. Even the Kingdom of Sarnor and the Great Empire of the Dawn.”

Daenerys had heard the name before, when Ser Jorah asked her to come east with him before she had burned Drogo. Before she became Daenerys Stormborn, when she was only a girl who bore her name, Viserys’ sister and Drogo’s wife.

“Tell us of the Great Empire of the Dawn,” she requested of Doreah.

“I was told of it by a man of Yi Ti who visited me in Lys,” she admitted, “I know little enough.”

“We know nothing,” Qezza offered, “tell us and we all shall know.”

“It is said that in ancient days, the god-emperors of Yi Ti are not mere kings as they are now. They were as powerful as any ruler on earth has ever been, with greater wealth and power than Valyria at the height of its power. They held all lands beyond the Bone Mountains that border the Dothraki Sea.

“Their first ruler was the son of the gods themselves, who reigned for 10,000 years until he joined his parents in the sky. Afterwards his children ruled, but each ruler had a shorter and more troubled lordship until at last a woman reigned as Empress. Her own brother killed her.

“This murder caused the gods to become angry with their decendants, and bring forth the Long Night. That-”

Dany physically started, causing Qezza to still, worried she had hurt her by catching some tangle in her hair. “The Long Night? What do you know of it?”

Story interrupted, Doreah paused for a moment. “The Long Night was a season of winter which lasted so long that children were born and died elderly without seeing the spring or the sun. Many cultures speak of it. The Rhoynar said that during it the Rhoyne dried up, the Asshai’i beside the Shadow wrote of it, and Yi Ti, the descendants of the Great Empire of the dawn, claim that the sun hid its face for a lifetime out of shame.

“All also say it ended. The Rhoynar claim that their gods joined together and sang to bring the sun back to them. The Asshai’i have record of Azor Ahai who fought against the darkness with a flaming sword. And in Yi Ti the night was cast down by a woman with a monkey’s tail.”

“In Westeros,” Dany added, when Doreah spoke no more, “they tell of a hero who sought out the Children of the Forest, and together they fought the Battle for the Dawn and broke the endless winter. I did not know that Essos had its own tales of the Long Night.”

“I was once told that the Five Forts are a wonder of the world, as the Wall is.” Qezza said.

“The Five Forts? What is that?”

“To the north of the Shadowlands and the east of Yi Ti there are the Five Forts, which are large and very old. Beyond them are wild lands.”

“I was told that they were raised by the Great Empire of the Dawn, to keep the demons of the Long Night from the lands of men.” Doreah volunteered. “Now they protect Yi Ti from raiders. From cannibals and lizard men in the Grey Waste.”

“The Grey Waste? A desert?” Dany asked.

“A desert of freezing cold and savages.” Doreah said.

The thought unsettled her. Once, when Daenerys had imagined a marriage pact between her people and the North, Jon Snow had wondered aloud why the White Walkers came from their snowy lands now and not sooner.

Perhaps it had been because they could not. Only the oncoming winter had frozen the seas well enough that they could cross from their strange cities in the east to the Lands Beyond the Wall. 

That night, Daenerys would sleep with Drogon next to her, his size to great for him to fit properly in her bed, but his warmth comforting all the same.


	20. The Bay of Dragons I

She could not say that the queen had not warned her.

The air in the North was biting cold and never seemed to warm. This did not bother her, servant of a fire god that she was, but she had been forced to find a suitable blanket for her mount in White Harbor, least the poor thing freeze. It was not snowing hard just yet. That was their only consolation.

Even in Essos they had heard of the Wall. Those from Westeros said it was three hundred feet long and wide enough for a dozen mounted knights to ride abreast on the top. Many said that serving on the Wall was an honor for those who displayed selfless devotion to duty, and knights, honorable men, and nobles all could be found there.

Or perhaps Kinvara had just stopped listening to men’s tales about the end of the world too many centuries ago.

In truth, windblown dirt prevented her from truly seeing the vastness of the Wall. The men who guard it had hearts as black as their cloaks, and were bound together not by any sense of misplaced honor, but by their fear of those men who lived Beyond the Wall. They had long since forgotten its purpose. One did not build a structure three hundred feet long and seven hundred feet high to guard the realms of men against other men. It is made of solid ice, stone, and earth, and bitter, unrelenting cold. Most of all, it is made of blood. Of old spells that whisper words to her skin as she passed by. 

Kinvara looked up and into the endless fog and wondered if Daenerys would be angry if she knew what her messenger intended. 

It did not matter. Kinvara was bound to follow the will of the Lord of Light, and though He had led her to Daenerys Stormborn there were greater things in her fires. Death and darkness and terrors. Life and fire and music. The death of men and empires and gods.

“Open the gate!” A man shouted above her, and she was granted entrance to the courtyard of Castle Black.

Her mare stepped into the courtyard where a man’s eyes tracked her progress. The Acting Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was a slim and scowling man with a thin smile and a cold voice. Daenerys had never spoken of him, but Kinvara knew this face from the fire.

“Priestess.” He greeted. “What brings you to Castle Black? This is not a place for women to prosthelytize.”

She smiled, sweet and simple. “I have traveled from across the world to speak the word of my Lord to Westeros. So few noble houses would hear me. Tell me, my good man, might I see your maester for news and trouble you for food for a night? I do not lack the coin to pay you.”

His gaze cut down her front, the thin red gown and delicate metal collar about her neck, her handsome mare and slender frame. When he had looked his fill he scoffed. “You’ve picked a poor time. One night will not beggar us, but you would do well to leave on the morrow. Before the wildlings climb the Wall.”

Without turning from her he bellowed, “Edd!” A moment later a tall, thin man appeared at his side from the crowd of men who watch her. “Take the woman’s horse and see her to the maester.”

‘The maester’ is Maester Aemon, just as Daenerys promised. She remembered the young queen’s eyes, soft with the want of family, turning hard as stone as she spoke. And she remembered this man, old and blind and clever, in her fires. Daenerys had bid her speak to him and gain his measure, as though Kinvara needed anything as plain as that.

“Good Maester,” she greeted him, once his steward had made the introductions and bustled off to the other side of the room, “I have traveled very far to see you.”

“To see the Wall, perhaps,” he said, “not to see an old man.”

“I know whom I have come for. I know you, maester. I know you watched the ruin of your House, the death of your family.” The old man’s blind, milk white eyes lifted to look at her, look as though into her soul. “And what could you do? When you heard they had killed your brother’s son, and his poor son, and even the children?”

He could have called for his steward. Instead he said, “Nothing. I was loyal to my brothers. To my duty. Have you come to kill me, then? A dagger, a fall, poison? For an old man. The last of his House.”

“I have come bearing news from the east.” Kinvara needed no warmth, but still she tugged her skirts tight against her legs. “Viserys Targaryen is dead.”

“You are cruel to bring such news.” He sounded weaker than before. His grip on his blackthorn cane tightened.

“Daenerys is not. She was wed to a Dothraki khal.” Kinvara studied the man as she told him. There was no light in his eyes, but she was not so young as to need such simple signs. “She was gifted three stone dragon eggs on the day she wed him, and somewhere on the Great Grass Sea they hatched. And so did she.”

Aemon Targaryen shifted toward her. “Tell me.”

Many hours later, well past sundown, Kinvara left the stout wooden keep below the rookery. She needed little food. Had journeyed across the breadth of the North with only what she had seen fit to place in her saddlebags. What sustenance she needed the Lord provided. Her hours here were better spent in the service of the queen.

And the Lord of Light.

She closed the door of the keep behind her, light skirts catching in the wind, and turned to find that Jon Snow had nearly run into her as he moved to open it.

“I’m sorry.” He said, stepping back.

Kinvara looked into his face for a moment. She knew what he had done. And she knew what he had yet to do. If those were one and the same it was not her fault for knowing it.

“Lord Commander.” She said, by way of greeting.

His brow creased. “I’m not the Commander. Just a steward.”

“The redheaded wildling.” Kinvara continued blithely, watched as his eyes widened and his breath stopped. “When his wounds are healed ask him about Hardhome. Do not wait for him to mention it, or you will be too late.”

Then she stepped around him and continued on her way, leaving him standing in the entryway staring after her.

~oOo~

Oberyn and his family had arrived four months past and while Ellaria had become a dear friend, her paramour and his daughters chafed at the lack of activity. Thus Dany had invited them to join her when she traveled to visit Yunkai and Astapor. Publically it was a royal procession through her cities, but in truth Dany wanted to see the state of Astapor and Yunkai before leaving them.

She was a proper queen in this life, and it would be a lie to say she would not miss the cities she had once tried to hard to leave. In the ruins of Slaver’s Bay she would always be Mhysa, even when in the Free Cities she was a dragonlord and in Westeros she was a mad queen. It would cling to her in this life as  _ khaleesi  _ had in her last.

All the way from Meereen to Yunkai, Daenerys had ridden at the head of the column of some 100,000 Dothraki with Missandei at her side. Prince Oberyn and his daughters rarely joined her. Nymeria and Tyene vanished into her riders, and Obara had appeared to be flirting with Jhogo whenever the two were together. The Dornishwoman did not flirt with any great flair, but she seemed to be getting the point across to her bloodrider, which was more than the vast majority of Westerosi would manage.

How it had happened she could not tell you just now, but Daenerys found herself clinging to the back of her silver in a full gallop, flying after Prince Oberyn’s blood bay stallion.

He made it to the ridge before her, drew up the flighty sand steed and reined around to wait for her. Her silver was only a few strides behind, and Dany pulled up beside him to let her mare regain her breath. The run had tamed even the red stallion for a moment.

“Your stallion is lovely, Prince Oberyn.”

Before their impromptu race Dany had been of a mind with her bloodriders. The sand steeds were lovely, but Oberyn’s stallion was nothing compared to the red that Khal Drogo had raised and ridden and died with. Now she saw the appeal of the fine-boned, flighty horses. She would not want to ride one to war, but for speed she doubted there were any better suited.

“Thank you, My Queen. He was bred by my own family in Dorne.”

“Beautiful horses, your own kingdom, and a loving family.” Dany nudged her silver forward, toward the ride of the ridge where she could see her khalasar’s front riders. “Why would you ever want to leave?”

“It is a big and beautiful world. Most of us live and die in the same corner where we were born and never get to see any of it. I don't want to be most of us.” Oberyn came up beside her. “You must feel the same. You are followed by Ghiscari and Dothraki and Westerosi.”

“If I could craft my life anew I would not be Daenerys Stormborn.” She told him, although her gaze did not turn from her riders. “I would be Princess Daenerys, sister to King Rhaegar. I would wed Viserys or Aegon or some handsome highborn lord and live all my days as a Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.”

For a time they sat in companionable silence. When he spoke again his voice was quiet. “I understand your grief, Your Grace. I too would trade my freedom for the lives of my sister Elia and her children.”

“What was she like? Your sister.” Dany looked to find that a wistful smile cross Oberyn’s face.

“As children Elia and I were inseparable, although she was often of delicate health. And she was very beautiful. Elia was witty and clever. She had half a hundred suitors before she wed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and became the princess she already was.” Oberyn struggled to keep his voice mild. “Her daughter Rhaenys looked much like her.”

“Forgive me for asking. The children- it is ill done to murder ones so young. I burned the woman who brought me such pain.”

“I did not know you lost a child.” Oberyn sounded almost apologetic.

“Khal Drogo’s son.” And Jon Snow’s, but she could hardly tell him that. That grief must be hers and hers alone. “He died with his father. I grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, until out of the pyre came three new lives.”

Sometimes in the night she heard Mirri Maz Durr’s voice.  _ Only death can pay for life _ . Had she lost them to pay for her dragons? Sometimes a more insidious voice whispered to her, on nights when Dany could not sleep for all that she has done and lost and lived.  _ When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. _ Had that second child died so she might live again? Did that babe’s life kindle inside her only destined to die? 

“We came across the world for the true queen,” Oberyn said softly, as if he were afraid that someone might be listening here on the empty plain of the bay, “but we came, too, for our heart’s desire.”

Daenerys lifted from her reverie and turned to the unusually solemn man beside her. “What is your heart’s desire?”

“Vengeance.” His dark gaze met hers, and in his eyes she found familiarity. “Justice.” There was the deep thunder of hooves over the ground. His last words she caught only on the edge of her hearing, but he did not look away from her even as the outriders reached them.

“Fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited for the next couple chapters.
> 
> Also Jon Snow. Boy is canceled.


	21. The Bay of Dragons II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come,” she told him, “it is time we tried your wings.”

The first time that Daenerys Targaryen rode a dragon she was frightened and fleeing, in beautiful white linen with dagged sleeves and dragon scale textures, and wearing the finest jewelry within Meereen.

On this day she rose before the sun and dressed in Dothraki leather riding trousers and a tunic of solid leather armor. She pulled her hair back into a single, thick braid and found leather gloves for her hands. Then she went to the doors to her terrace and stepped onto the stone stairs.

As she did, Missandei stirred in the great wooden bed in the center of the room. “Daenerys? Shall I call the kitchens for you?”

“No. I have no need to break my fast this morning.”

Her friend’s eyes cleared a bit, and she pushed herself up on an elbow to take in the riding leathers Dany had donned to step into her garden. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” Dany looked over her shoulder to the Naathi woman. “Do not fear, Missandei. I will return to you.”

And then she strode down the steps and toward the parapets where Drogon slept on the grass. Her son lifted his head as she approached, watched her with great molten red eyes. She rubbed the soft skin between his nostrils and he huffed warm air over her midriff. “Come,” she told him, “it is time we tried your wings.”

Drogon hissed and stretched out flat upon his belly. Gripping his spines tightly, Dany vaulted onto the dragon’s back. He was still so small, as small as his siblings had been when she chained them in her first life. Even so, she could feel his movements as he twisted under her, his muscles rippling as he gathered his strength. He jolted violently, black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the soft grass was falling away beneath her.

From a vast distance, she heard Missandei scream. Then a door was flung open so suddenly that it slammed against a wall, and Ser Barristan emerged into her room from what had once been slave quarters and cursed at the sight before him.

Daenerys saw little and less of this. She was wrapped up in Drogon’s great wings, pressed low against his back. “Sōvegon!” She sang. “Naejot!”

When she looked down she found her knight’s white cloak beneath her through a haze of dust and tears, but she felt only elation. She did not look down again. Daenerys drove Drogon onward, and then she heard the cries of his siblings as they came up beside him. For a short while they sang and swirled in the skies, joyous in their flight, glorying in their wings.

Then she pushed him into a low, lazy circle of the city. Beneath them houses flashed past, people poured into the street from every door, hung out of every window. At first their cries were of surprise, but then she heard as if from the city itself a shout be taken up. 

“Mhysa!” They said, joining her in her exaltation. “Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa!”

From a thousand throats, ten thousand, a hundred thousand. All of her city sang to her. 

Drogon gave a long, loud trill, and then she turned him. Over fifty leagues divided Meereen from Yunkai, but Drogon could travel that distance in less than an hour. They flew up, finding the wind to be with them, and sailed onward. Far below Daenerys could see the road and the empty plain, and when she spotted a small caravan she dove down to greet them. Pointing, they shouted at her in syllables she could not make out.

Those of Astapor and Yunkai were not used to dragons flying by, unlike the Meereenese. When she came to Yunkai and swept low over the walls of the Yellow City men screamed in fear. Horses reared and camels stumbled to their long legs, and the freedmen soldiers on the wall caught sight of her silver hair and raised their spears to shout in salutation to their queen.

After circling the city she turned again, on to Astapor. It was just less than two hundred leagues from Meereen, but the distance was nothing to Drogon’s wings. They arrived before sunhigh, to give the city the same greeting she had given the others. Drogon’s wings beat a smooth pattern in the air as he swept over the plaza where he had once burned Kraznys alive and helped win Dany the city.

She put Drogon down in the Plaza of Punishment. Beneath her hands he was fire and power, but he leaned down at her bidding so that she could see beyond his neck. It had not been that long since Daario had seen her, only some three months. But then she had been on her silver and not the Black Dread reborn. 

With careful steps she dropped to the ground and slipped under Drogon’s neck to face the Unsullied that had gathered. “Forgive me if I caused you alarm.”

One of the men removed his helm and stepped forward, replying in High Valyrian as she had. “My Queen. Welcome to Astapor.”

“Thank you.” Daenerys looked to Daario. “I was hoping for food and perhaps a waterskin before I continue on.”

After her lunch, Daenerys turned toward the horn of the plain and onward, into the straights that separated the Bay of Dragons from the Gulf of Grief. There was an island there, that separated the coast from the Lands of the Long Summer, and Daenerys meant to see it.

With Rhaegal and Viserion circling overhead, she and Drogon found the remnants of Ghozai on the Isle of Cedars. Below them the water was a shimmering turquoise, leading up to a beach of pale sand. The skies through which she flew were utterly cloudless, the blazing sun beating down on them. 

They might have landed, but Daenerys pushed them onward, slowing to look below her. The forests were green and still, full of twisted trees. Beneath the dragon’s wings she found a small lake, barely more than a pond, and pushed Drogon down.

He landed just before the water, and Daenerys leaned forward from between his shoulders to look down at the water. She could smell rotten eggs here, and in the little clearing of green there were many plants, including strange bright flowers that she did not know. Rhaegal landed a short distance from them, lowered his muzzle to drink the water, and then withdrew. Somewhere in the trees Dany could hear the cries of monkeys, but still she gathered Drogon again. If her children would not drink then neither would she.

Half a league to the south from the little pond lay Velos, once a fair city with palaces of pink marble and cedar. It, like its sister city to the north, lay in ruin from a wall of water that swept over them during the Doom. Drogon put down atop the highest point of the ruin, and looked down into the broken palaces and shattered statues.

As she looked upon the destruction, something moved on the corner of her vision. She looked, and found a horror staring back with great bulging eyes. It was a greyish-green monster with the legs of a man and the face of a fish. It opened its mouth, revealing sharp yellow fangs. And then it was gone in a single snap of Viserion’s jaws. 

Cut from the body by her daughter’s sharp teeth, the beast’s long, webbed hands fell. The lower half of its flabby body struck the ground, insides spilling out in a spray of blue-ish blood. As she watched, Rhaegal landed beside their sister and snatched the lower half of the body, downing it in a single gulp.

Horrified and strangely curious, Daenerys took to the air again.

Such monsters might be killed, but the smell that lingered over the island could not be removed by spears or swords or dragonfire.


	22. The Great Grass Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys goes west, and Kinvara south.

Her son’s cry can be heard for miles.

Beneath her is the vast open expanse of the Dothraki Sea, and far beyond she can make out the impression of Volantis but not the towers. For now she paid them no attention. Drogon made a lazy loop around the mass of Dothraki, before folding his great wings in to land among them. Of his own accord he pressed his belly to the ground to allow her to slide off of his back and down his wing.

The greatest of the khals greeted her.

Khal Mogo with twenty thousand riders, Khal Rhogoro who’s khalasar had become half again as large as when she had seen him last, and Khal Jezzo who was the eldest of them. There were half a dozen more, all with khalasars of less than 2000 riders. They hung back, the uneasy truce solidified by the appearance of the dragon.

From the front of them rides Rakharo on his dark bay. “ _ Khaleesi _ !”

“ _ Blood of my blood _ ,” she returned, as he reined in before her son. “How many are we?”

“Near 40,000 riders. The rest will arrive soon, as told by the Dosh Khaleen.” Rakharo leaned down to better speak to her. “But Khaleesi, Khal Mogo keeps slaves.”

“Khal Mogo.” The words were dust and ash on her tongue. “I remember. He was Drogo’s, once.”

“Yes, Khaleesi. And when Jhaqo left he named him bloodrider. With Jhaqo dead he leads his own khalasar.”

Daenerys remembered the frightened child she had saved outside of the city of the Lamb Men. Her name had been Eroeh, and while Khal Drogo lay dying Mogo had taken her, and raped her, and given her to Jhaqo to be raped, and then he had given her to his bloodriders. When they were done with her, they cut her throat.

“I swore by every god in this world that he would die screaming. I have given his Khal the honor.” She strode toward the horses that awaited her. “Show him to me.”

Rakharo rode beside her as she walked. It would be better for her to be mounted, but let them think her a harmless woman. What had Mago called her? A foreign whore. Yes, let them think her weak. The ground thundered as her son followed her, and Daenerys had to school her face.

“ _ Shieraki gori ha yeraan, Khaleesi _ .” He said. The stars are charging for you, it meant. It was told to those about to ride into battle.

“ _ M'athchomaroon _ !” Rhogoro called, as she approached, greeting her the way one would a friend. “ _ Do you ride well? _ ”

“ _ M'athchomaroon, Rhogoro. How is my beloved sister? _ ”

“ _ She prays to the Great Stallion for a son every morning, and I have given her jewels and horses and servants taken from Volantis _ .”

“ _ Glad I am to hear it. _ ” Dany returned. “ _ Khal Mogo. Rakharo, who is blood of my blood, tells me that you have taken slaves within your khalasar. Do you deny this _ ?”

“I _ t is the way of the Dothraki. _ ” He replied. “ _ It is my right. _ ”

“ _ I am the Great Khal, _ ” Daenerys was shorter than he on the ground. On horseback he towered over her, “ _ you are my kos. My word is law. Order your riders to release every slave within your camp, and I will let you live. _ ”

Mogo sneered, and spat on the ground. “I _ am khal to 20,000 riders. You overstep, vikeesi _ .”

“ _ You are khal no more. _ ” Daenerys did not flinch as he nudged his horse toward her. Rakharo lifted his hand to his weapon, but she waved him off. “ _ Drogon! Ossēnagon se anne. _ ”

Her son’s neck snapped forward. With a single bite he took off the horse’s head and half its neck besides. The animal’s legs buckled and it dropped like a stone. Mogo found himself thrown to the ground beside his once beautiful stallion.

The other khals flinched backward, Jezzo having to rein his mount in a circle before he could calm it. Daenerys did not move even as blood was splashed across her face and chest. As he struggled to get his legs out of his stirrups, she continued. “ _ When Drogo fell from his horse you took one of the Lamb Men who had been under my protection. Her name was Eroeh. Do you remember her? _ ”

He kicked the horse onto its side. “ _ No.” _ He snarled.

“ _ You raped her. And then Jhaqo raped, her. And then he gave her to his bloodriders. Do you remember her now? _ ”

“ _ I remember. I cut her throat when we were done with her.” _ Mogo stood from his horse, weapon in hand.

“ _ Good _ .” Daenerys said, serene as he strode toward her. “ _ Know that this is for Eroeh. _

“Drogon.  _ Dracarys _ !”

Drogon spat out the horse’s head he had been trying to eat. He inhaled, flames visible between the scales of his neck, and then he exhaled dragonfire. For the first time Daenerys wished her son was smaller. Mogo had died instantly due to the heat of the flames. She wanted him to suffer.

When his fire had finished, Dany walked over the carcass, flames licking at her heels, and stood before the other khals. “ _ It is tradition for the bloodriders of a khal to become the leaders of some or all of his khalasar upon his death. None of them are worthy. All kept slaves against my orders. Rakharo. You rode with these men. Which is worthy to lead a khalasar in my name? _ ”

_ “Gezro, rider in Rhogoro’s khalasar. _ ” Rakharo did not falter when put on the spot. “ _ And Hezho. He was bloodrider to Mogo.” _

“ _ These men may divide the khalasar that was Mogo’s however they please. But neither of them may kill the other and take his khalasar for a month _ .” Dany decided.  _ “But that was not why I called you here. _ ”

She lifted an arm to indicate the city far in the distance, the eyes of every khal fixed on her. “I _ mean to take Volantis for my own. You will aid me in this. Rakharo, which man will lead an assault in my name _ ?”

“ _ Rhogoro’s khalasar is the greatest among these, Khaleesi. _ ”

Dany addressed him. “ _ How many riders do you have? _ ”

“ _ Near 11,000 _ .”

“I _ would have 30,000 _ .” She looked to Rakharo. “ _ Arrange this for me, blood of my blood. _

“ _ Khal Rhogoro will take these men north up the Rhoyne to Selhorys. You will lay siege to the city. Threaten them, do not destroy them. Volantis will send an army to their aid. Once these men leave we will approach and surround Volantis. _ ”

“ _ Khal Daenerys, _ ” Jezzo said, “ _ Volantis is within great walls _ .”

“ _ In truth, Khal Rhogoro will see all of the fighting. _ ” Daenerys assured him. “ _ If all I have ordered has been done the city will be ours without a single Dothraki rider bloodying his arakh. _ ”

The men did not have a reply to that, even Rakharo looked surprised. Dany’s smile was still serene. “ _ Which of you will lend me a horse? I cannot ride the khalakka within the camp, and my silver is still some six days away _ .”

~oOo~

Sansa Stark wore a dress of dark lilac and purple, with long dagged sleeves and slender silver clasps. Her eyes were red and her face tracked with tears. She was so focused on hurrying up the staircase that she almost ran into Kinvara.

Like brother like sister, it seemed.

“Excuse me, my lady,” she said, leaning back as she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she held.

“The fault is mine. I am visiting only for a few days with Lord Corbray and the castle is vast.” Kinvara clasped her hands together in front of her. “I am Kinvara, a disciple of R’hllor. I have come to tell the people of Westeros about the Lord of Light.”

“I’m Alayne.” She replied, planitive. “Lord Baelish’s niece. Do you need help finding your way?” 

The queen had nothing to say about the elder Stark girl’s kindness. She had much to say about her being foolish and rude, and less than honorable. And about her fear. Sansa Stark had feared much. The Lannisters, the Dragon Queen, the Bolton bastard; feared so greatly that she had set aside honor and duty and family. What had been done to her had frightened her so that she would rather have died from the White Walkers than by the hands of man. 

“You are very kind, thank you.” Sansa led her back down the stairs she had just come up, her face closing now that she had a companion. “Do you worship the Seven, Lady Alayne?”

“Yes, I-” Sansa glanced at her. “I worship the gods of Westeros.”

“Tell me, my lady, what have the gods done for you? When you pray to them, what’s their answer?”

A shudder ran through Sansa’s shoulders, and her knuckles turned white where they clung to the scrap of fabric like an anchor. “I- they watch over all of us, ready to dole out mercy, or justice."

“And there is so little mercy or justice to be found.” Kinvara did not need to look in her fires to know that Sansa must have prayed for her father’s life and for the Boy King’s death in this life as well as the last. "When I pray to the Lord of Light he shows me the truth in the fires. I only need eyes to see if a god is real or not.”

“I do not need the gods to show me the truth.” Sansa said. Immediately she realized how sharp she had sounded. “Forgive me, Lady Kinvara. It is a trying time. But I know the truth of the world. And I am pleased with my gods.”

They stopped before the hall, where Kinvara could easily reorient herself and find her way to where she pleased. She turned to face the girl, a calm smile upon her face. “I am sorry about your aunt’s death, but I am pleased that it gifted you the truth.”

Sansa’s head came up, and her blue eyes locked onto Kinvara’s face. Her face quickly shuttered, but before she could control herself Kinvara had seen the horror that crossed her features. “The truth…”

“She lied for him, she killed for him. Her father, her husband, her sister. They all stood between your aunt and her husband. What did she lie about? Who did she kill?" 

“You know.” It was a whisper.

“I have looked into my fires and they have shown me the truth. A child came to Kings Landing and a woman left it. You have but to take the power that lies at hand.”

“I have no power. I have no one.”

Kinvara tilted her head ever so slightly. It was not that the Stark girl did not have the ability to climb out from what had been made of her, but rather that she had been beaten and broken. “A wolf is a wolf, my Lady. You will find a kracken when you come to Winterfell. Ask him what you have.”

Before Sansa could answer, Kinvara turned away. She crossed the courtyard to the tower on the opposite side, and when she looked out the window as she climbed the stairs inside Sansa Stark still stood in the courtyard. Staring at the place where she had been.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	23. The Great Grass Sea II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside of Volantis plans are made.

The news was brought by a rider she had never seen before.

He was but a boy, nervous to be standing before Drogon’s great maw as the dragon yawned and stretched out his great black wings. Dany thanked him, stood from her place among the khals, and climbed onto her son’s back.

From the air she could see that Rhaegal had already landed to greet the newcomers. It was not just another of the many small khalasars slowly trickling in, but her own. Even from the air she could make out Aggo’s palomino charger and Oberyn’s flighty stallion in the front of her khalasar, and behind them stretched fifty centuries of Unsullied.

Drogon trilled, long and loud, and his siblings answered his call. 

They landed several meters in front of the head of the khalasar, an attempt to not frighten the horses out of their minds. It didn’t quite work, but by the time she had stepped out from under Drogon’s shadow they had recovered.

“Hail, Khaleesi!” Jorah called to her. 

“ _ M'athchomaroon _ !” She replied, and then, in the Common Tongue, “Welcome to Volantis!”

Oberyn put his heels to his horse and pressed the sand steed toward her dragon. “It is not quite Volantis yet, my Queen.”

She lay a hand on his horse’s neck and grinned up at him, a rush of excitement filling her chest. “Volantis rules from the tributary Selhoru to the mouth of the Rhoyne. I will have it all, and the Orange Shore besides.”

Lys and Tyrosh and Myr, free Pentos with her servant-slaves and the Qohor guarded by their Unsullied, dark Norvos and opulent Qarth, all hated her for the slave trade she had crushed under her heels. And so Daenerys would have them all. Only Lorath and Braavos would not feel her wrath, and even then only if their Iron Bank saw fit to keep out of Westeros. 

But Volantis, the First Daughter of Valyria, the richest and most powerful of the Free Cities, where slaves outnumbered freemen five to one; Volantis she would have first. She remembered their threats in her past life, the support they had given Yunkai and the masters of that lifetime. Here she would blood her dragons early against their black walls. 

“Khaleesi,” Jorah approached, holding the reins of her silver. 

Daenerys swung into the saddle, the mare steady beneath her even as Drogon gathered his wings and lept into the air. She reined the mare around to stand next to Oberyn, then nudged her into a trot. “Come,” she bid, “it’s time we began.”

There was a little less than a league between them and the main camp on the edge of the Dothraki Sea. Daenerys drew her mare in to walk between Jorah and Aggo to catch up on what she had missed. While she listened to Aggo explain how they had met another khalasar, her gaze was drawn to Oberyn, who cut a striking figure atop his stallion.

The long-legged sand steed was the pinnacle of good breeding when it came to speed and desert horses, and as always it showed in his every movement. With only mild regard for his rider he threw his head with his nostrils flaring, danced sideways, and almost ran into Ser Barristan’s horse. In his lap Oberyn’s hands were tight around the reins, although this gained him only a modicum of control over his flighty mount.

As they walked onward, the stallion proceeded to start at the faintest sound or hint of movement from the grasslands. Oberyn seemed completely oblivious to this as he spoke with Jhogo, his halting Dothraki of months past having transformed into a reliable grasp of the language. Even when the stallion shied from a scurrying groundhog and attempted to buck him off, he never scolded the horse or complained of him. 

From where her mare was Daenerys had an excellent view of all of this. And an excellent view of the Dornishman’s seat, which never once lost contact with the saddle, even through his steed’s bucking. She could see his thighs too, where clasped tightly around the stallion. His hips rolled with each of the long-legged steps, and with each roll they pressed his seat deeper into the leather.

“My Queen?” Ser Jorah prodded. “Daenerys?”

“Hmm?” Dany registered both the words and her misplaced focus in the same instant. She turned to look at her bear. “These Dornish horses, Ser Jorah. They are lovely.”

“I’m certain that Prince Oberyn would let you ride one if you asked.” And she was certain that Prince Oberyn would let her ride  _ him _ if she asked. Ellaria had begun hinting at such shortly before they had departed Meereen. Although, Dany noted, she hadn’t seen her paramour since joining the khalasar again.

“The khaleesi does not need to ride one,” Aggo said, “she may own one if she pleases.”

And, oh, that didn’t help at all. Dany pushed away all the thoughts of what it might be to own a man such as Oberyn Martell. She had a city to win. “Where is Ellaria?”

“She rides with Irri’s  _ khas, _ ” Ser Barristan told her. 

Dany nodded. “I will want her for the war counsel.”

It was not the war counsel that brought the Dornishwoman to her. Upon their arrival in the main camp Dany had dismissed her knights and bloodriders alike to refresh themselves after the long ride through the Great Grass Sea, and taken up the newly built tent in the center of her own  _ khalasar _ . It was not as though the other  _ khals _ had been unkind, indeed they had had the greatest tent within their ranks given to her, but there was something about being among her own people that felt like home.

Next to her tent those for Irri and Missandei were arranged. These were no slave quarters, but suitable for sister or daughter to a  _ khal _ . Still her handmaids came to her. Missandei curled up on the furs of her bed with a scroll in her hands, and Irri settled in front of the mirror and fussed at her hair, at the braid she had taken up when Dany had given her her own  _ khas _ , until Doreah huffed and went to sort through her hair. Uncertain of her place, Qezza lingered in the doorway until Dany ushered her inside.

Ellaria, whose tent was just to the side of Dany’s own, appeared last of all. She had taken the time to clean the dust and sweat off of her face, but still wore her hair pulled sharply back and dusty riding leathers. When she saw her, Daenerys took the woman’s face her in hands and kissed her until both were breathless. 

When she called for her counsel Ellaria joined her and sat at her side. The others trickled in slowly. Her bloodriders, reunited again, sat to her right with Ser Jorah and Daario. Grey Worm and Ser Barristan stood behind her, Missandei and Grey Worm’s gazes catching and a smile springing across the scribe’s face. Prince Oberyn took the seat on Ellaria’s other side, Tyene and Nymeria settling beside him while Obara stood, spear in hand, behind them. The last of them was Moqorro, who had been waiting in the tent when Dany arrived.

Dany took a moment for herself as the Dornishmen settled into their seats. Once her trusted counsel had been Tyrion, loyal to the sister who had killed the High Septon and her gooddaughter and her son besides; Jon, who she had followed and loved and died by; Lord Varys, more loyal to seating a man on the throne than the queen he had chosen; and Olenna and Ellaria, lost and broken. 

At the thought of it, her hand slipped to rest on the thigh of the woman beside her. Ellaria glanced at her, but there was no playfulness in Dany’s face and so she lay her own hand on top of Dany’s. It was comfort that Dany sought, although not for the reasons she might think. Ellaria served as a reminder of what Westeros was - lords who gloried in injustice and a populace too frightened and convinced of their own agency to make their own choices. Dany’s thoughts went to Yara. She does not know when she will see her again, but the Ironborn was a reminder as well. This was what happened when Dany set her own agency aside and listened too well to the counsel of others.

And so she held Ellaria’s hand tightly as she began. “Thank you for joining me.

“Here is our plan. Khal Rhogoro and Ser Jorah will lead 40,000 Dothraki riders north and west to Selhorys. Jorah, lead with a modest  _ khalasar _ and one of the weaker  _ khals. _ Volantis will send out a slave army to protect the city, as they have before. Once they reach the city you will surround them with the full force of the Dothraki so there will be no escape. After this, we will march on Volantis.

“Moqorro, is all prepared?”

“I have spoken with Benerro in the fires. We are ready.” The priest assured.

“Within Volantis there are five slaves to every one freeman,” Dany told the table, “Slaves grow their food, clean their streets, guard their walls, and teach their young. If the Volantene are smart they will send their greatest army, composed of slaves, outside of the city to fight us. To do otherwise would be suicide.”

“Within Volantis the old blood keep to the gods of Valyria,” Moqorro said, “but the Lord of Light is favored outside of the Black Walls.”

“When the army marches upon us the red priests will incite a revolt. The slaves will turn on their masters, and those freemen who follow R’hllor will provide support.”

“You will have the city,” Nymeria said, slowly, “but inside the Black Walls many will remain untouched by such a revolt.”

Daenerys allowed herself to smile, then. “I have three large dragons. They can turn themselves over to my new world, or they can die in their old one.”


	24. Outside Volantis I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viserys had once sought shelter within the Black Walls. But Viserys had no dragon, and Old Volantis had no want of two young orphans with the Sunset King on their trail.

Volantis was ruled by three triarchs.

Daenerys knew this because Viserys had once sought shelter within the Black Walls. Only those who could prove unbroken descent from Valyria were allowed to live within, and, he reasoned, were not the Targaryens the last and greatest of the dragonlords? But Viserys had no dragon, and Old Volantis had no want of two young orphans with the Sunset King on their trail.

These triarchs must be of the Old Blood, but they were separated into two parties: the tigers and the elephants. The tigers were the bloodthirsty, the old aristocracy and warriors who desired conquest; and the elephants were those who advocated trade, the merchants and the moneylenders. In four hundred years there had never been more than one tiger elected, and for three hundred no woman had been elected. And now they would have a queen.

For was not Daenerys the last of the dragonlords?

The current triarchs were Malaquo Maegyr, an old, repeatedly elected tiger who disliked the Red God and his worshippers; Nyessos Vhassar, who Yunkai had purchased in her last life, but who still held to Illyrio Mopatis in this; and Parquello Vaelaros. Parquello marked the first time that two tigers had been elected since before the Seven Kingdoms began. All because the Volantenes wanted to go to war against her.

Daenerys was happy to oblige. If they wanted war, she would give them fire and blood.

The last time the tigers had ruled, during the Century of Blood after Valyria’s Doom, Volantis had laid claim to Valyria’s empire. They had taken Lys and Myr for two generations, and then they had tried to take Tyrosh and the Free Cities had rebelled. A young Aegon the Conqueror had mounted Balerion and set a Volantene fleet ablaze to aid them. They had been laid so low that Dothraki had attacked their easten colonies, enslaved their populace, and left the cities in ruins.

And so, when Volantis reached out to send envoys under a peace banner, Daenerys Stormborn greeted them in black leather armor fit for a dragonlord, with a Yunkai’i fleet in their harbor and Dothraki and her children settled about her pavillion. 

Each of the triarchs had sent a representative, as had those that lived behind the Black Walls, and the red priests. The men rode elephants out of their gates. Daenerys supposed it must make them feel more powerful. As they approached, Rhaegal sat up from where they had been sprawled out and stretched his muzzle forward curiously. The elephant screamed, reared, and it took them some time to collect both the beast and themselves.

When at last the men were assembled before her, Daenerys swung an arm out to indicate her child. “ _ You must forgive Rhaegal. They have never seen an elephant before, and they would like to know if they are good to eat. So curious, my children. _ ”

Qezza, in the black of House Targaryen and the green of the Pyramid of Galare, spoke before any of the Volantene could answer. “ _ You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt. Empress of Valyria, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, and Great Khal of the Dothraki. Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons _ .”

Her guests exchanged amused looks. “ _ Forgive us, Queen Daenerys, but the last man who named himself the Emperor of Valyria rode with thirty thousand men into Valyria and was never seen again _ .” The one who represented Parquello said.

“I _ am not Aurion _ ,” Daenerys told him, voice flat. “ _ And it is not Valyria I want, but Volantis _ .”

Nyessos’ man raised both of his hands in a peaceful gesture. “ _ Please, Queen Daenerys, it is not war we want. _ ”

Not war. She wanted to scoff. When she had been in Slaver’s Bay, without dragons or wealth or the love of the people, they had sent a fleet to Yunkai’s aid. Now that she stood before their city with an army and dragons they retread their steps and tried to parlay.

“ _ The dragons are a gift to us from Aegarax _ .” The man who represented the Old Blood agreed with his neighbor. “ _ You are the last daughter of Valyria. Come within the Black Walls. We will gift you a manse and teach you all we know of Valyria. You and your dragons are welcome here. _ ”

Daenerys’ eyes were cold when she looked to him. “ _ When I was a little girl Viserys brought me to the Black Walls, and you turned us away. That was the time to offer shelter and protection. _ ”

“ _ That was our failure. We feared Westeros, but we should not have turned our backs on you, _ ” Maegyr’s man said. He was lying, Dany knew, but he was lying well. “ _ Allow us to make this up to you. _ ”

He clapped his hands, and chests that had arrived upon the elephant were carried forward. Daenerys expected gold or silver or jewels, but when they were opened they contained only slave collars. “ _ Five thousand former slaves for the Silver Queen _ .” Maegyr’s man said.

Nyessos’ representative was next. He lay before her twice as many chests as Maegyr had sent her, these filled to the brim with gold bars and coins and bricks. 

Last was a gift from Vaelaros. A young woman came forward with set of books with Valyrian writing on them. Daenerys took them from her and turned them over in her hands. One told of the gods of Valyria, another of the black stone with which they crafted, and the last of sorcery. It was a good gift.

“ _ Here are the terms we offer, _ ” Vaelaros’ man said. “ _ We will give you 10,000 slaves, as much gold as they can carry, twice as many chests of gold as we have here, 100 ships, and a pact of non-interference. In return, all we ask is that you go on your way _ .”

“ _ Here is what you will give me _ .” Daenerys handed Ellaria the books, which the woman held to her chest. “ _ You will free every slave within any area where Volantis has any influence. You will give me half of the wealth of the city, to better the lives of these slaves. And you will name me Empress of Valyria. Then you may keep your city, your triarchs, and your lives _ .”

“ _ Half of the gold in the city, _ ” Nyessos’ man protested, “ _ is a great deal of money _ .”

“ _ All of your lives you have profited off of the people you have enslaved _ .” Daenerys replied. “ _ You tell them who to marry, where to work, and determine all punishments they receive if they do not do as you say. And now you say that the fortunes you have because of their work should not be given to them _ ?”

“ _ A compromise, perhaps. We will give you part of the wealth of the city for your personal stores, and anything that you need done we shall do with the remainder of the funds. If you want a market raised or an army purchased, we will do it in your name. _ ”

“ _ I will consider these terms _ .” She allowed. 

“ _ We, too, have much to discuss. _ ” He agreed. “ _ Let us return to our triarchs and speak with them. We will tell them of the kind words you have said and the good pact you have recommended. Then we will return _ .”

When she dismissed them they piled back onto their elephants and returned to their city. As they retreated, Oberyn spoke from her side. “It would be unwise to trust the word of moneylenders to give you gold out of the generosity of their hearts.”

“Do not fear, Prince Oberyn. They have no intention of upholding anything they have promised.”

Daenerys had learned her lesson in Yunkai. One does not leave the enemy sitting in their city to your south. First you destroy all chance of resistance. Only then do you march north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve finally finished plotting out (most of) the remaining chapters. 
> 
> While it will be a Dany-centric fic, I will try to do what D&D did not and give the characters fair and logical character arcs. I can promise that we’ll be avoiding any Jon Snow pairings, though. And we’re relatively safe for Stannis fans (relative to the show, that is.)
> 
> I also wanted to note a few differences from the show that aren’t really impacted by changes I’ve made, but by logic and reason: Bran will not be a robot, the Rhoyne is still the location of the Stone Men as opposed to Valyria. Valyria remains a volcanic wasteland that Balerion suffered mortal wounds in. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, and I’ll see you Monday with a new chapter featuring dragonfire!


	25. Outside Volantis II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were scorpions in the harbor. 

“I hardly imagine that will be difficult with three dragons.”

Dany smiled at Nymeria over the spread of horseflesh and peppers. “It is one thing to conquer a city, it is another to rule it.”

“You were doing very well in the Bay of Dragons,” Ellaria observed generously. 

She knew better than to answer that. Her success in the east had been born of pain and suffering and mistakes that a young girl had made so many years ago. When the masters were truly destroyed their secrets had poured from them. She had known which desired peace and which coveted a return to the old ways. With this, she had broken them.

“Volantis is not Meereen. They do not take slaves, they purchase them, they use them until there is nothing left. And then they buy more.”

“And so we linger here instead of sailing for Westeros,” Obara said, “You mean to crush the Old Blood of Volantis. It will destroy the economy and lay low the city. Then we will be here longer.”

“Do you think I care about the economy or the wishes of old rich men in the face of those they have enslaved?” Daenerys asked her. “The Masters tear babies from their mothers' arms. They mutilate little boys by the thousands. They train little girls in the art of pleasuring old men. They treat men like beasts. Let Westeros rot. Let Tywin Lannister sit on the Iron Throne. When I come to their shores the throne will still stand. The same is not true for those who call for me within Volantis."

“The Iron Throne is yours by right,” Nymeria said, “Volantis is not.”

“You do not understand. Have you ever been sold, Nymeria? Have you ever been a thing to be passed from one man to the next, bought and sold like a mare might be?” Dany looked at Obara. “It is said your mother was a whore in Oldtown. Tell me, did you have great freedom before Prince Oberyn came to claim you as his?”

Nymeria looked to her sister, but Obara said nothing.

“I know what it is to be bought and sold. Viserys would have let all 40,000 of Khal Drogo’s riders fuck me if that was what got him an army. I know because he told me.” Ellaria’s gaze was sympathy and horror, but Daenerys didn’t pause to address her. “My husband made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man he might have given me to his bloodriders as often as he came to my bed. It has been known among the Dothraki to do such things. Am I to stand by while other little girls are raped?

“And so you will take from the highborn and give to those you free.” Ellaria’s voice was soft even in the silence of the tent.

“Everything they acquired by exploiting others I will take, and I will give it to the people who did the work. I will not allow slavers to keep their ill-gotten gains and use them to raise armies against me.”

And what will the former nobles do?” Nymeria asked.

“They might be scholars or scribes, teachers or servants, field workers or farmers. I do not care what they do. In a few decades, new nobility will rise, but all will be free.”

Their conversation was interrupted by footsteps outside of her tent and voices in Valyrian. After a moment, Grey Worm entered her tent. The commander of the Unsullied did not display his emotions on his face, but even so Daenerys knew that something had gone wrong the moment his eyes met hers.

“What’s happened?”

~oOo~

There were scorpions in the harbor. 

The mere thought of it made Dany’s blood boil. Time and time again she offered peace and was turned away. She had given the Volantene terms and they returned her kindness with treachery.

From where she sat on her silver overlooking the harbor, Dany could see the new ships circling uncertainly. Her blockade was preventing them from coming close to the city, but her ships had been forced to push inward and close ranks.

Hands shifting around the reins, Dany spoke. “Ser Barristan, see a horse selected to feed to my children.” She wheeled her mare. “Do it quickly.” Kicking the silver into a canter, she rode for the camp.

Prince Oberyn and Grey Worm met her there. The Unsullied would not contradict her, but she expected the Dornishman to. Already she could hear Tyrion’s prattle about dangers and caution and  _ patience _ . She wanted to kill something. Scorpions, ships, Tyrion Lannister, she did not care just now.

“You ride for the newly arrived ships,” Oberyn said.

Dany all but flung herself from her saddle. “I do.”

“Good hunting,” he bid.

Dany took a moment to reflect that perhaps not all Westerosi nobles were as those she had met before. Merely most of them.

“Kill the horse,” she commanded. 

There was some fumbling, but then Aggo drew his  _ akrah _ and opened its neck. Viserion and Rhaegal fell upon it, but Drogon remained. When she came to his side he pressed himself down and waited for her to climb upon his back. As she settled between his spines Rakharo turned from the feasting dragons to look up at her. “ _ Fichas jahakes moon, Khaleesi! _ ”

At the vivid encouragement, Dany could not help the smile that spread across her face. It was fierce and full and mad, she knew, but all she could think of just now was Rhaegal falling from the sky, the bolt piercing his jaw. She would not let it happen again. Not here, and not in Westeros.

Together she and Drogon dove over the cliffside and plummeted downward. Her son spread his wings, caught the wind, and then they floated. Beneath them, the tents faded to nothing, and the ships looked like toys. 

They were caught unawares, and she could see some of the ships scurrying to load bolts, the men like ants beneath her. On the Yunkai’i ships, her men shouted and pointed and gathered upon the deck to watch the destruction of their fellows. Daenerys knew that the Volantene would be watching as well, and so she would give them a show.

She watched as a bolt flew toward her, but she had done this before. Drogon tilted minutely to avoid it, then winged toward the ship it came from. As they frantically tried to reload she aimed his fire at the weapon on the front of the ship. It exploded into nothing, and the men around it screamed and burned and died. 

Another bolt came from the side, and lazily they circled the ship. Drogon wiped out another scorpion with a breath, and then they went for the ship that had shot at them. One by one, they set the fleet aflame. She might not have gone so far if this had been the Volantene fleet, but it was not. This was nothing more than a score of sellswords. 

Daenerys would show them what happened when her enemies approached her dragons with ballista. She would give them a lesson that would make the Volantene despair and would be told around the world, from Oldtown to Asshai and beyond, into the Shadow and the Sunset Sea. 

When she was done the entire fleet was slowly sinking, burning as the men on board threw themselves into the sea or tried to douse the flames. Daenerys selected a galley that was floating better than most and put Drogon down onto it, wood creaking and breaking. A man was caught under his foot, crushed to death. Another did not run quickly enough. Her son batted him into the sea with a forelimb.

Leaning down from her place on Drogon’s back Daenerys looked into the faces of her own men, those on one of the Yunkai’i ships next to the dying sellswords. Their captain was a tall Summer Islander with a bald head. “Capture any of those that escape their ships.” She commanded. “Hold them prisoner until we can collect them from the harbor.”

He nodded, struck wordless by the carnage, and Drogon took to the air again. Underneath him, the ship shrieked and broke in two, and in moments it was gone.

~oOo~

Daenerys returned to the camp elated and victorious.

Drogon landed next to his siblings and huffed at what was left of the horse carcass. Viserion had claimed the rear vertebrae and scraps of flesh on the back legs, while Rhaegar was being tempted with a sheared lamb. 

Oberyn Martell lifted the carcass from a cart and walked toward her child. The dragon sniffed at the breeze, snorted hot air into the wind. Three meters from the dragon’s head, Oberyn hefted the creature up; Rhaegal’s eyes remained fixed on the offered food. Two meters from the dragon’s maw he threw it into the air and Rhaegal caught it with a snap of their jaws. In two large gulps, they ate the sheep.

“Daenerys,” he called, as she slid from Drogon’s back, “how was your hunt?”

She swiftly strode across the ground toward him, and once she was close enough she flung herself into his arms and kissed him full on the mouth. One of his arms locked around her waist, keeping her close, and the other curled around the side of her face. He held her to him and deepened the kiss, and for a moment her world narrowed to tongue and teeth.

When they parted he looked over his shoulder to find black scales behind him. Her children had enclosed them in a wall of wings, and while he looked on in wonder at the quarrelsome dragons acting in silent concert she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. A moment later he was recovered. He lifted her with ease and turned them to press her into the heated scales. 

Well,” he hummed against her mouth, “aren’t you beautiful.” He smelt of horse and sandalwood, of the summer sun and the deep, dark flames of her children. She slipped her hands under his coat, splaying them on the bare skin underneath. In turn, he found the laces of her leather armor and tugged.


	26. Volantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sudden, rolling drumbeat drowned out all else. They bellow a challenge loud enough to shake the city before them, a thundering call to war. “Mhysa!” Rises from five thousand throats, and the drums never falter, their beat as great as the thunder in the sky. To Daenerys they sound like triumph. Like the herald of a new age.

Volantis had a standing army of 30,000, the greatest in the known world.

All were slaves.

In addition to this Volantis had acquired several sellsword companies, among them Company of the Cat and the Windblown. They had also bolstered their standing army with slave men from the city. Oberyn had estimated that Volantis’ current strength was 50,000. 

As this army marched out of the city gates, Daenerys and her people awaited them. The queen herself was at the head of the army, astride her great black dragon. High above her other children circled, waiting for her command. The full strength of the Unsullied waited behind the dragon, while the Dothraki were split in two and given the role of backup. Her advisors had protested this decision, but Dany was resolute.

When the slave army had half exited the city, Daenerys turned to look down at Moqorro, riding beside Oberyn on her right. The red priest lifted his ever-present staff in acknowledgement, and Drogon lifted his head to shriek.

In concert the Dothraki begin to strike the drums they hold. The sudden, rolling drumbeat drowned out all else. They bellow a challenge loud enough to shake the city before them, a thundering call to war. “ _ Mhysa!” _ Rises from five thousand throats, and the drums never falter, their beat as great as the thunder in the sky. To Daenerys they sound like triumph. Like the herald of a new age.

With one great leap Drogon is in the air. As they race toward the city they are of one mind. Daenerys can feel his wings as if they were upon her back, hear his shriek as though it comes from her throat. His shadow is like that of death itself as they pass over the orderly army and beyond, past the city gates, into Volantis proper. Drogon gave a single, great roar as they passed over, and then they turned.

Before the gates the army had broken ranks. They fought fiercely among themselves, brother turning on brother, and when she looked down the city too was at war. She could only catch glimpses. A red priest lit a manse on fire, two slaves turned on the woman who held their chains, a woman cast her master off a wall. 

Then they were beyond the city, and the Unsullied lowered their spears and marched on the gates. When they reached the outskirts of what had been Volantis’ prized army it slid away like water, and what few men remained to fight died to the inexorable tide. As she watched, several score of loyal men, sellswords, she thought, grouped into a knot in an effort to prevent their own deaths. 

“ _ Dracarys! _ ” She cried, and the sellswords fled into spears. They died impaled on Unsullied weapons, they died burning, they died slashing at one another in fear. The Unsullied marched on. In their wake the freedmen regrouped into orderly lines and units, weapons raised, and followed after. 

“ _ Mhysa!” _ Her Unsullied bellowed as the fire came down upon the sellswords. A beat afterward the new freedmen echoed. “ _ Mhysa!” _

Daenerys went on. Inside the city Drogon landed on a stone house. A man was flogging another, who lay on the ground in chains, one hand raised to protect his head. Her son’s teeth sank into his torso, and he was shaken like a cat might shake a mouse. Legs struck a wall on the far side of the alley, and Drogon dropped the corpse. The freedman looked up into a dragon’s bloody maw, welts across his face and chest and arms, and shouted.  _ “Zaldrīzotimuña!” _

Something bright and hot in Dany’s chest sang out at the image. The Valyrians had learned slavery from the Ghiscari and used their dragons to spread it across the world. Once the beat of wings overhead brought fear and horror and chains. Now her dragons are a symbol of freedom. She lifted a fist skyward. “ _ Dāerves _ !”

It came from the streets around her. From the buildings that formed the street, from the freedmen soldiers and the frightened children. And then it rose, and rose, and rose. “ _ Dāerves _ !” The people of Volantis rallied to her call. “ _ Dāerves _ !  _ Dāerves! Dāerves! _ ”

“ _ Zaldrīzotimuña _ !” A red priestess stood at the street beyond her. “ _ Perzys Ānogār _ !”

Dragonmother, she said. Fire and blood.

Drogon roared his approval. The man on the ground before him cast his chains to the ground and took up the whip his master had held. He ran down the alley to the priestess and the fighting men she had gathered. He might have been a bed slave. He certainly did not look as though he’d ever fought a day in his life, but when Daenerys Stormborn came to Volantis he had turned on his master and fought for freedom. 

Now he slapped the whip into the face of a soldier, and behind him another freedman used the opportunity to cut off the hand that held a sword. His second blow killed the soldier, but the freedmen are outnumbered. Drogon’s great neck reached out and he spewed dragonfire over the little company of Volantene fighters. They fell and fled, and the priestess’ men cheered and took off in pursuit. 

Daenerys took flight again.

When it was all over the rebellion had stretched from the east banks of the Rhoyne to the west, and even beyond the Black Walls. The east of Volantis had done much of her work for her, and many of the freemen who fought as the slaves rose up had died. Her Unsullied had taken so few casualties that it was almost a miracle, and of the 40,000 slave men who had marched from the gates of Volantis near 30,000 wished to stay with her armies. Amid the rebellion, the Company of the Cat had turned on the Windblown, Volantene sellswords both, now destroyed in the wake of the dragon.

Dany took her children to a great plaza near the Long Bridge. There they landed atop the highest buildings they could find, and the plaza and streets and even the buildings filled with freedmen. She watched for a time, as those who were slaves of Volantis spoke among themselves and stripped their collars from their necks and looked up at the dragons.

Finally, a red priestess came forward, the crowd parting for her. She stood upon the steps of the building Drogon perched on, and called out in The bastard Valyrian of Volantis. “ _ Now comes Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Bride of R’hllor, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. Queen of Volantis. It is to her you own your freedom. _ ”

“ _ No _ ,” Daenerys said, from above. The priestess looked up, and she raised her voice so that the crowd could hear. She did not speak the Volantene dialect, but their low Valyrian had been born of High Valyrian. They understood her well enough. “ _ You do not owe me your freedom. I cannot give it to you; your freedom is not mine to give. It belongs to you, and you alone. If you want it back, you must take it for yourselves, each and every one of you. And you have! _ ” 

Somewhere in the crowd a Ghiscari man shouted, “ _ Mhysa! _ ”

They did not all know what it meant, but then a pale woman echoed him. “ _ Muña!” _

And then they are shouting. Volantis held a million and a half people within her walls, and eighty percent had been slaves. It started, caught, raced throughout the plaza and the streets just beyond, and built and built and built until Daenerys thought she could hear the entire city. She had brought them a spark, dragons and Unsullied, support and hope, and they had done the rest. Had set fire to kindling and fed it wood until it burned high and hot.

Daenerys lifted her fist to the sky and shouted. She was not heard over the chant, but those at the front of the plaza faltered, and as the cry shook the city they hear her. “ _ Dāerves!”  _ The priestess turned her head to see her. “ _ Dāerves!” _ Daenerys repeated, again and again, until the freedmen were shouting too. “ _ Dāerves!” _

“ _ The dragons are fire made flesh _ !” She could just make out the priestess’ words.  _ “A gift from Āeksios Ōño to his bride!.” _

Drogon roared, and the freedman shouted with him. His siblings took to the air, and everywhere their shadows fell the call grew stronger. She could still hear them naming her mother, so Daenerys closed her eyes and stood up on Drogon’s back and cried out with everything within her. “ _ Dāerves! Dāerves! Dāerves!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I’ll post the next chapter tomorrow.


	27. Volantis II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before her the map stretched wide across the table, the fertile Disputed Lands and the sands of Dorne, and all the Free Cities in between. Cities with high walls and men in chains.

Daenerys did not trust Benerro not to burn people and she did not trust Nymeria not to show favoritism to her own blood, so she could not leave them in charge of Volantis.

Even now the freedmen were learning how to elect their own leaders, but that would take time. Some of those they elected would be good men but poor leaders, and others would be poor men and good leaders. The newborn, struggling freedom of Volantis could not handle either.

While others struggled to make a name for themselves the vast majority of the freedmen in Volantis agreed upon one candidate: a old woman who was first pleasure slave to a triarch, then a wife, and now a widow. Nymeria said that the Old Blood referred to her as Vogarro’s Whore, and Doreah said that the freedmen called her the Window of the Waterfront. She was stooped and stern, with scar tissue upon her face where her slave tattoos were cut out, and her eyes are bright and black when she looked into Daenerys’ face.

She walked into Daenerys’ audience room in a slow, steady pace. There were no introductions. The Widow gave a bow and said, “ _ Dragonmother. We have waited for you for long years. Now here you stand, and you have brought with you freedom.” _

“ _ Your freedom was not mine-” _

The woman waved her off. “ _ Not yours to give, but ours to take. I heard you. You were in my plaza. But that is not entirely true, is it? As Volantis learned during the Century of Blood; it is difficult to forge an empire without dragons.” _

Aegon V had been taught a similar lesson during his reign, Daenerys reflected. It was one she too had learned the hard way in another life. It was one she embraced whole-heartedly now. Had Drogon been large enough to destroy the city walls they might not have waited so long as they did. 

A smile touched Dany’s lips. “ _ It is true. My advisors say that you will be elected by the freedmen, no matter who else is ” _

“ _ I have been with them for many years. First I was a slave in Yunkai, and then I was sold to Vogarro. He came to love me, and he freed me and married me.” _ Her gaze flickered over Daenerys. “ _ We are not so different, Khaleesi. _ ”

“ _ No,” _ Dany remembered Drogo’s cruelty and his kindness alike. Had Viserys sold her to a different man, had she not been a dragon, her life might have been as this woman’s. “ _ I want Volantis to succeed. As do you. Let us make common cause.” _

“ _ You want me to rule in your name.” _

_ “Valyria was a freehold. I do not want to crush the city underfoot, my only desire is to free those in chains.” _ Dany remembered Daario’s words. She was a conqueror, but she must be a queen too. Else all she did was for nothing. “ _ In a generation or two there will be no difference between the once-nobles and the freedmen, but I have freed them and it is my responsibility to protect them.” _

_ “I will need gold and soldiers, lands and livestock, property and power.” _

_ “All that you shall have, and fire and blood besides.” _

~oOo~

Near three months after landing at Volantis Dany called her advisors, old and new, to her again.

She had taken a palace behind the Black Walls for her own, and there they gathered. Ser Jorah who had once crossed the Red Waste by her side and Belos the new commander of the Volantene army, young Qezza former noble of Meereen and Ser Barristan who was once the Usurper’s Kingsguard. 

Daenerys had worn full-skirted dresses of blue silk from the Jade Sea for many weeks. Today she wore black armor and a necklace of a silver dragon, and her mother’s ring. With Volantis given over to those who could best rule her Daenerys’ work was done. It would be a long fight to right the wrongs done here, and Dany was not Volantene. Of all the lessons she had learned in Westeros perhaps only one was of more importance than learning to delegate to the proper people.

At her request, the Unsullied had produced a map of the world for her war table, and now Daenerys stood before it. “How many ships will I need to take my army to Westeros?” She asked.

“100,000 Dothraki and all their horses, 5,000 Unsullied, and 25,000 freedmen?” Daario mused from where he was sprawled in his chair to her left. “A thousand. Perhaps more.”

“And how many ships do we have?” 

“Two score from Yunkai and three hundred from Volantis,” Missandei reported.

Oberyn sat forward. “Dorne is not a sea power, but Doran will help hire ships. Let me send word to him.”

Before her the map stretched wide across the table, the fertile Disputed Lands and the sands of Dorne, and all the Free Cities in between.

“Lys has ships.” Daenerys said simply, “I will take theirs.”

A pause. Then Oberyn spoke. “All of them?”

“Not all of them. Some will be needed for trade. Some will not be needed, because they will not be warring against Tyrosh. I’ll have her too, in time.”

“You mean to take Lys.” A smile had begun to creep across Ser Jorah’s face.

“There are slaves in Lys. I will see them freed.”

Obara grumbled low from where she sat. “Westeros awaits.”

“I have need of someone to go to the sellsword companies. I would not have them join my enemies.” Dany continued as though she had not spoken. 

“I rode with the Second Sons for a time. And I founded the Brave Companions, although they already wage war in Westeros.” Oberyn said. “Obara will ride to them in my name, and speak with them in yours.”

“Thank you, Oberyn,” Dany had become truly fond of the Dornishmen, from patient and kind Ellaria to surley and stubborn Obara, “I have need of Tyene too, if you will.”

“How can I serve the queen?” Tyene wore the blue that Daenerys had for so long, but in a gown of Westerosi make. Her golden hair was gently pulled back covered by a veil. No septa could have shone with greater innocence. 

“I need a spokesman in Braavos. A Westerosi to convince the Iron Bank that I am the true queen.” Daenerys turned from Tyene to the other side of the table. “And I need a freedman to tell them that I have freed the slaves from their chains and burned the masters for their cruelty. That the dragons have returned to the world.”

“Me, Your Grace?” Missandei was wide-eyed. “Are you certain?”

“You are a competent scribe and you know the plight of the slaves,” Dany told her, “and you are a dear friend. I will send with you Unsullied, to insure your safety.” Missandei said nothing, so Daenerys continued, hesitant. “You do not have to go.”

In truth, Daenerys did not want to part with Missandei of Naath. But nor did she want to take her to war, to the cold of Westeros, to death or chains. And Missandei was more than qualified for the position. Who else could she send?

“I will go.” Missandei said. “I would be honored to speak for you in Braavos.”

“Then we sail for Lys,” Ellaria mused. 

~oOo~

The night before they leave Daenerys sent for a bath.

Irri, as she left to summon Ellaria and retire to her own quarters, told her that the Volantene maids, freedmen all, had argued among themselves for the right to bring a heavy tub into her quarters and fill it with the hottest water that can be found. As the water steamed they added soaking salts and fragrance oils, and one even scattered red flower petals over the surface.

When they were finished the youngest of them assisted Dany with the silver belt of her blue dress, and they filed out. The water was scalding, relaxing her muscles and calming her mind, and Dany reveled in it. She leaned back against the wall of the tub and slid down until the water was up to her chin. 

Her mind cast about for her son, and she found Drogon and his siblings settled lazily in the courtyard of the palace. Viserion still gnawed on the last of the sheep’s bones from their dinner, while Oberyn and his daughters sit under lamplight nearby, the Dornishman casually running a hand over Rhaegal’s ream scales. Drogon shifted slightly as she looked through his eyes, listened for a moment to the conversation under the trees, tilted great black wings as if they belonged to her in truth.

She was broken from her drifting by the scrape of a door. Ellaria wore orange, dark and light, with long cut sleeves and a neckline cut so low that it almost resembled those the noble Volentene women wore. Her finely pleated dress rippled like water as she moved. Daenerys looked up at her with violet eyes made soft in the candlelight, the ends of her silver hair trailing into the water, curves hidden by flower petals.. 

For a moment the Dornishwoman lingered just beyond the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Dany lifted a hand from the water and Ellaria came to her side, gathered her skirts in one hand and knelt next to the tub. Steam rose from her skin, and when Ellaria took her hand her fingers immediately flicked down to her wrist.

“You look like a goddess,” she said, leaning forward to press her forehead against the side of Dany’s silver hair.

Ellaria’s fingertips dipped languidly into the water, snapped back into her palm, recoiled against Dany. She shook away the water with a hiss. “Why would they bring you water this warm?”

“I am the blood of the dragon,” Dany grinned as she turned her head into Ellaria’s, “I like the heat.”

Thin fingers slid into the fabric at Ellaria’s shoulder, tugged lightly. The sweeping sleeve fell to the woman’s elbow. As Ellaria pulled her arm from the dress Dany’s hand brushed over warm, brown, terra-cotta skin. She caught the older woman’s mouth, lips brushing before they sink into each other. Her mouth tasted like citrus and spice, and Dany was suddenly, sharply aware of her own want.

She sat forward in the bath, gathered her legs beneath her; the water rolled in her wake. Ellaria shrugged out of the other sleeve and the gown fell to her waist, caught on the swell of her hips. Her hands sought the toned skin of Dany’s stomach and smoothed upward, the heat of the water forgotten. Dany sank her fingers into her curly, silk-soft hair and clung.

It is much later when Daenerys wakes.

Ellaria is wrapped up in her, legs tangled and bare skin pressed together, her head against Dany’s shoulder. When she shifted to prop herself up Ellaria clung to her like a limpet. Contentment sat heavy in her chest, its weight like gravity; it is not only her paramour that anchors her to the bed.

There is a figure in the room, and Daenerys is surprised but not afraid. It was his abrupt inhale that woke her. The man wore finery fit for a commander of her army. His doublet matched the blue of his eyes, and Myrish lace the color of butter spilled from his collar and cuffs. Yet all were well-worn and battle ready. 

“You did not knock.” Her voice is low, meant to escape Ellaria’s ears. 

His gaze took them in, low across the sheet draped over them and high to the shine of her eyes in the firelight. “No. I had thought...”

He did not continue. She chose not to press.

“My Queen.” His bow is light.

As he turned and left, as quiet as he had come. Dany released a breath she did not know she was holding. Once before she had sent him away, and felt nothing. Now she knew what it was to be denied by one you loved. She lowered herself back to the bed, buried her face in Ellaria’s hair, and sought comfort in the warmth of her skin.


	28. Lys' Harbor

Volantis was the greatest of the Free Cities, but Lys the Lovely had the largest fleet.

She had some three hundred and fifty heavy dromon and light galleys and armed cogs, which protected the city herself along with the merchant ships which frequented their harbors. While Lys is deeply involved in the slave trade, going so far as to claim women and comely children from passing ships to serve as bedslaves and courtesans, they also make wine and poison and sweet perfumes.

This was one of the few places in the world where serving in the navy has more prestige than the army. Most of the ships were commanded by sons of merchants or nobility, while the oars were dominated by slaves. The largest of the ships needed one hundred and fifty oarsmen, and few had more freemen than slaves. Her army was 15,000 strong, but had no cavalry, the men being trained to fight from ships. Of these around 9,000 were slaves. The captains of the centuries were slaves, but a millennium’s commander was a freemen, often of the nobility. 

Daenerys was expected. Lys had sent her entire fleet to meet the oncoming Targaryen force, and many of the ships had scorpions on their fronts. Three dragons would have made short work of the ships, but Dany had ordered Viserion and Rhaegal to be thoroughly distracted on one of the Volantene ships before what had been the Volantene and Yunkai’i navies engaged with the opposing fleet.

From high above she watched the battle begin. A spray of arrows fell from one ship onto another, trying to kill the defenders. In another place, one of the heavier Volantene ships rammed a light Lys galley. On the front lines one of the Yunkai’i ships had outdistanced its fellows, only to be swarmed by the enemy. She waited, impatient, until battle was truly joined. Until no one was looking at the skies.

Once she had been haphazard and foolish in her attacks, before Rhaegal died to Euron’s bolt and Missandei fell from Kings Landing in chains. Afterward, she and Drogon had trained for days upon days until they were as one being. Until no bolt could touch them, until no ballista brought fear, until they burned the Iron Fleet into nothing and all the scorpions of Kings Landing besides.

When Drogon turned from the skies above the greatest naval battle seen since the Century of Blood they were one again. A few ships might have shot at them, but the vast majority were wrapped up in hand-to-hand battles. She swept down to where three of the Lysene fleet surrounded one of her ships and set fire to all three challengers. As Drogon pulled up to survey the battle a cry went up.

The first shout was a suggestion, the second a possibility, and the third was an exaltation. From the Unsullied of Astapor to the freedmen of Volantis they cheered the sight of a dragon above them. And then, just as Dany straightened out from dodging another bolt, a man onboard one of the Lysene vessels came up behind his captain and stabbed him in the back. The deck of the ship swarmed with oarsmen fighting their own crew, and when Drogon flew over the ship for a closer look, the cry of “ _ Dāerves _ ” that went up from the victorious freedmen was sweet to her ears. 

Another ship was overrun by freedmen soldiers, the crew fighting and dying under their swords. On a Lysene cog slave fought slave as the ship sank and burned. One of the Volantene dromon rammed a galley that had pursued it, men leaping overboard as the wood splintered. Dragonfire burned a scorpion, and Drogon took out a second with a sweep of his legs. 

At the end of the battle fifty ships had sunk into the sea, and, while only a handful were unharmed, the majority remained seaworthy. In the upcoming days it would be found that over three-fourths of the slaves had turned on their masters and fought for Daenerys. Of the over 28,000 men who had been enslaved and forced to work for the Lysene fleet over 19,000 remained and the vast majority had sworn themselves to her cause. And while 19,000 freemen had been in the Lysene navy fewer than 5,000 remained. 

But that was for the days to come.

Now Daenerys landed Drogon on the beach where prisoners were exchanged and wounded were cared for. Some of the ships had been towed in, unable to move under their own power, and in the air her children shrieked as they tore apart one of the sharks that the blood-filled water had attracted.

While Lys was filled with silver-haired, violet-eyed freemen and slaves alike she spared those considered beautiful for her pillow houses. The sailors were Ghiscari and Qartheen, Summer Islander and YiTi-an, and other races she could not describe with only a scattering of Valyrian blood among them. Still, all had seen those of the blood of Valyria. 

When the wounded and dying struggled to sit up and look upon her with their last breath and freedmen defied dragonfire to cluster at the edge of Drogon’s reach it was not to see her exotic look. There were no words she needed to say. These men had fought because they knew what she represented, because they would rather die fighting for freedom than live as slaves. 

“ _ Chains have made family of us,” _ she said at last, as the burgeoning number of onlookers held their breath,  _ “Those who wish to go may go. I will give you ships enough to carry you home. But those who stay will not fight for me. We fight for the brothers and sisters still in chains, from the Narrow Sea to the Saffron Straits. Until no child knows what it is to be bought and sold.” _

If Daenerys had had a horse she would have reined in a circle to see the sailors. As it was Drogon sat up on his hind legs and gave a great shriek, and as one the men who had fought with her echoed the dragonsong. “ _ Dāerves!” _

~oOo~

The streets of Kings Landing were filled with the cries of children.

They laughed and shouted as the Rose Queen who had so recently regained her crown with her third marriage to a third Baratheon saw to it that they were fed. Even now her voice could be heard, sweet and steady, among the children.

Unlike her granddaughter, who sat among the happy, filthy children, Lady Olenna had remained at the back of the room. As the visit drew to a close, the woman moved to the door to step out, unwilling to be trapped by a crowd of urchins. She climbed into the carriage that awaited Margaery, drawn by two snow-white horses as benefitted the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Olenna arranged her skirts and took up the embroidery she had been working on. It was only then that she realized, with a start, that she was not alone in the carriage. A woman sat across from her, in her granddaughter’s place. She was clad in red robes made in the loose, flowing style of the east. Her hair was so dark red it was almost black, and a collar made of interlocking squares rested on her neck, with a large ruby in the center.

"What are you doing here? How did you get past my guards?" Olenna demanded.

The red woman’s smile was slight but smug. "I came another way. Your guards never saw me."

"If I call out, they will kill you."

"They will swear to you that I am not here."

The Queen of Thrones was an old woman, and one not used to being spoken to as such. She frowned her new companion and snapped, “Left, Right! Come here.” Her men appeared a moment later. They were her personal guards, the twins Arryk and Erryk. Each are seven feet tall, and armed and armored. They had to stoop to look through the door of the carriage. “Seize her.”

One of them looked around the carriage, uncertain. “Who, my Lady?”

She pointed directly at Kinvara, who waited, serene, for her to discover what she already knew. “Her!”

Confused, the men looked at each other. “Lady Tyrell, there is no one here with you.” The other said.

Kinvara watched as Olenna looked from her to the guards, and then back to her. Staring directly into Kinvara’s dark eyes she said, “Nevermind. I’m an old woman, you know. Prone to confusion.”

This was clearly not true. The twins looked at each other, baffled, but closed the door and retreated as she had commanded. She waited for them to move away before she spoke, voice low and dark. “What do you want? Are you Stannis’ red woman, then?”

“No. I am from the east. Kinvara of Volantis.”

“Another red woman come to convert the small folk and cast down the Faith. Why are you here? Are you indeed here?”

“No. Hear me, Olenna Tyrell. The glass candles are burning. I have looked into the fires and seen the past, and the future. A maid at a feast, with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs. The Knight of Flowers in the dungeons of the Faith. Your little Rose Queen in a lion’s firey claws.”

“Speak plainly, girl.” Olenna demanded, bristling at the challenge. “What do you want of me?”

The priestess retained her serenity. “I have not come to stand in judgement, but to warn. Send your grandson from this city, do not wait.”

“He had nothing to do with it.” 

“If you will not heed my warning, then do not let your little queen attend his trial. That way lies only deceit and death, and Elia Martell’s fate.”

“The Dornish girl was killed by Tywin’s wrath. Tywin is dead. Do you-”

"Grandmother?" Margaery stood in the door of the carriage. "Who are you talking to?"

Olenna glanced back toward the opposite seat. There was no woman there. No red robe, no dark eyes, no priestess. Kinvara was gone.  A shadow. A memory. No one. She was an old woman, not usually given to flights of fancy. "I was praying," she told the girl.

Far away, in a castle surrounded by heavy snow, Kinvara lifted her gaze from the tall, twisted candle before her. Its light was unpleasantly bright, and where it shone her red robes turned the color of flame. She drew her gaze from Olenna, and turned it to another. 

Her work was not done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all wanta pinterest or a tumblr or something? I have a bunch of stuff saved I've come across in my research and I'd be happy to post it if you want to see it.


	29. Above Lys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. ― Edmund Burke.

With the harbor theirs for the taking Dany had gone early morning fishing,. 

Drogon had swept over a pod of some twenty to thirty creatures half the length of himself, with shark-like tails, four flippers, a seal-like body, large eyes and a tapered nose.She only had a glimpse of this as they flew over them, but her son had selected one for his meal and as he tore the creature apart she could look as long as she liked.

It was only as he ate that Dany realized one of the dragons was missing. Viserion was a short distance away on the beach, eating hER own catch - a large shark - in hasty bites. But Rhaegal was nowhere to be seen, not on the sand or over the water. She had seen them in the early dawn light, pressed against their siblings to share in the heat that rolled off their scales. 

When Drogon had eaten the last of his prey he collected his wings and took flight. The camp was large, but well-guarded, and it was impossible to miss the ten meter green dragon in the center of the camp next to her tent. Or, perhaps better said, next to Oberyn Martell’s tent. Among her men the Dornish were second to few, and it had been nothing to have a sheep brought to him from the herds. He had fed it to Rhaegal cut in half, and while the choice pieces were long since eaten her child still gnawed on the roasted bones. As they ate Oberyn stood by their head and pet the long, sweeping, golden horns that arched over their head. 

“Your Grace,” he greeted her with a grin and his eyes, although his hand never left dragonscales, “how was your hunt?”

“Every day they find new creatures in the water.” She did not bother to climb from Drogon’s back. The Dornishman had long since lost his fear of her children. Instead she let her feet drop from where they were wedged into the heavy scales of her son’s sides. “I begin to fear for the fishermen.”

“It is said that Balerion once caught and killed a kracken when Dragonstone was still the home of the Targaryens. Perhaps they are meant to eat fish.”

“That is not fish there.” She nodded to the remnants of Rhaegal’s meal.

“Rhaegal prefers mutton,” he laughed, “will you join us to break your fast, Daenerys? Ellaria has blood oranges and boar sausage.”

“A good breakfast,” Dany agreed, “I’ll send for goat cheese as well.”

Ellaria and Oberyn were good company. Daenerys could remember standing atop the Pyramid of the Dragon in another life, feeling like a god up on the clouds, and knowing she was all alone. All of those around her had always seen her as a queen, a khaleesi, and not as a peer. The Dornish had a fierce independence, though, be they princes or bastards.

It was Ser Barristan who found her there, between the Dornish and the dragons, some time later. Time was meant for the men to recuperate and restore the ships, for Dothraki and their horses to be brought from the mainland, for the supply line to be reestablished. When the knight was announced by the Unsullied who guarded the tent Daenerys knew it would be more than that. 

The walls of Lys were tall and white. Now the white stone was bloodied, and a score of spears now adorned the top. Each had a head atop it, and gore leaking over the stone.

“Why would they do this?” Ellaria asked, a hand pressed over her mouth. 

“ _ It is a warning, Dragonmother.” _ The Lysene freedman standing nearest her horse told Dany.  _ “It is a great crime for a slave to turn against their master. Because they cannot reach us they kill those within the walls to send a message.” _

“ _ We have nobles of the city, _ ” Oberyn said, in High Valyrian and not the bastard variant of Lys, “ _ We can behead them in turn. They must know thi _ s?”

“That may not be wise.” Ser Barristan protested in the Common Tongue. His ability to decipher what was said in the Valyrian of the Free Cities was better than his ability to speak it. 

_ “They were not beheaded.” _ The sailor told her, likely suffering from the same problem her knight did.

_ “How do you know this?” _ She asked.

“ _ The punishment for treason is to be hung until almost dead, to have your organs cut out and thrown into a fire, and then to be cut into pieces and sent as a message. _ ”

“Where are the body parts, then?” Ser Barristan questioned.

_ “Within the city. The message is not for the Dragonmother, but for the slaves.” _

“ _ The Great Masters sent a message to me as well. It seems that the tale did not reach so far as Lys. _ ” Dany returned. A familiar fury bubbled within her, trapped in her chest. “It is time they were reminded.”

“Your Grace,” the knight protested at the anger he can hear in her voice, “I would advise caution.”

“Caution I will have,” Dany turned back to the camp, “and Lys will have fire and blood.”

Lys was ruled by a conclave of magisters. They were elected for life, or until they chose to step down of their own will. Each of them was given a realm to rule and the High Magister ruled over them all. From the freedmen of Lys it was simple to learn where the manses of the magisters were, and simpler to learn which of the men ruled what sphere of Lysene policy. 

When this was done Dany returned to her tent. She dressed in Westerosi leather armor and Dothraki riding leathers, in heavy boots and gloves to protect her skin from cutting against dragonscale, and she braided her hair back to keep it from the wind. Qezza laced up her boots while Irri’s quick fingers tied her hair back. As she secured the gloves over her hands Ellaria entered the tent. 

“You mean to go into the city.” She said.

“I do. I will not have those in chains murdered to deny them their freedom.”

Ellaria lifted her hands to the sides of Dany’s face, and leaned into her. Her kiss was chaste, a touching of lips. “Be careful.”

Dany relaxed into her hands, remembering another lifetime. Another city. “I always am.”

~oOo~

In the air they were one. The fire in Dany’s belly was stoked by the primal rage of her son, and his every wingstroke was guided by her hand.

Drogon swung wide over the city, searching for scorpions, but when they found none it did not lessen her caution. Perhaps the Lysene had put all of the scorpions they had made on their ships, perhaps they were simply good at hiding them. It did not matter. 

They flew high over the walls and into the city, avoiding the places where men would set ballista to defend against a dragon. It had been a thousand years since Lys had feared dragonfire. In that time, they had forgotten what it was to be attacked from the air; traded the unease of living under wings for the false security of their high walls.

The magister of the slave trade kept a manse in the east of the city, far from the walls. Dany clung to Drogon’s back as they plummeted from the sky above. A single breath of dragonfire set the wood to cracking and falling in on itself. She left the smaller buildings on the property untouched, did nothing as freemen and slaves alike swarmed to the fire to put it out. 

Some of them did not run to the fire. Instead they tilted their heads back and watched as Drogon soared past. While the masters re-learned the terror of the dragon, those in chains saw their liberation.

They turned west from there, and as they approached the white-brick manse, Dany had the unusual luck of finding the magister of the city exiting his litter to flee the panicked streets. There was no need for dragonfire. Drogon picked the man up in his great black claws without so much as a stutter of his wings. 

The dragon’s wings caught an updraft, spread wide to hover above the manse below, and dropped the man onto the ground beside the abandoned litter. He screamed until he hit the ground with a sickening sound, and blood spread across his plaza, an echo of the dead on the walls. As Dany turned away, a wail came from the manse itself.

Daenerys turned up and away, returning to the skies where neither scorpion nor spear could touch her. Perhaps those men had been innocent of hanging heads on their city’s walls. But they had the power to stop it. There was no defense of inaction when it came to innocent lives. They should have stopped it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a tumblr, and it isn't very interesting as of yet, but here it is --> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/daenerysstrangersagain
> 
> I'm going to go there now and post something about dragons and fish. So, uh... tune in.


	30. Outside Lys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allies; new and old.

Daenerys was a queen.

Ellaria had recommended she wear something soft and willowy, to mimic the style of the nobles of Lys. The last time Dany had dressed for those around her had been during her wedding to Khal Drogo (had been during her time in Qarth). But Ellaria’s advice was wise, and so she wore something for the Lyseni.

Dragonlords did not wear metal armor. It was like to melt in the face of dragonfire, and did nothing to insulate against the heat of dragonscales. Instead she wore black and red, the color that Aegon the Conqueror would have worn when he burned another fleet in Lys’ harbor. She wore leather armor and trousers a man might have worn, and her hair braided with bells like a  _ khal _ .

In turn Lys sent her five envoys, one woman and four men for the last Targaryen Queen. The woman was beautiful, with golden hair and skin the color of cream. The men were unremarkable. Three had the Valyrian features of Lys, and the fourth was a Summer Islander. A litter and slaves carried them all, five for the five envoys. Daenerys did not think it wise to bring slaves to see the Breaker of Chains, but she supposed she could not speak for the Lyseni.

As they dismounted from their litters Ser Jorah left them to stand beside Dany, took a sharp breath and shuffled his feet, one hand wrapping so tight around his sword that his knuckles turned white. The rest of their honor guard returned to the ranks of the Unsullied who guarded the pavillion. Her knights were ill-spoken in the language of the Free Cities, so it was a young sailor who introduced her in their tongue.

“My Mistress is Lynesse of the House Hightower, paramour to Tregar Ormollen and wife to Ser Jorah Mormont.” One of the male slaves who had accompanied her announced, in the Common Tongue of the Sunset Kingdoms. Lynesse curtseyed before her, and the slave continued. “My Master is Tregar Ormollen, one of the greatest merchants in Lys.”

Two other men were introduced as Ineacho Hartin and Balliros Stassaris. Then a slave from the last man’s entourage stepped forward. “ _ My Lord has the honor to be Lucerys Rogare of Lys, fifth cousin to Queen Daenerys Stormborn and fourth cousin to Prince Oberyn Martell. He is the last scion of House Rogare and this one’s former master.” _

Dany hardly knew where to start. The other nobles seemed surprised as well, glancing over at the man discreetly. For a moment the only sound was the breathing of the dragons behind her. 

“ _ Former master? _ ” Dany asked. 

“ _ All slaves that were of the House Rogare are no longer slaves.” _

_ “What are they, then?”  _

_ “All have been hired as servants to the Lord Rogare, but he has promised to give us a ship once the harbor has cleared if that is what we wish.” _

Lucerys had waited silently while they spoke, but now he turned and motioned to a servant beside his litter. Several of the men from the rear of the procession came forward carrying trunks. They set them at her feet and opened them, revealing slave collars. “The collars of former slaves.” Lucerys said, in broken Common Tongue.

“You speak the Common Tongue?”

“Some of it.  _ I speak the High Valyrian of our ancestors.”  _

“ _ How are we cousins, Lord Lucerys?” _

“ _ You descend from Naerys Targaryen, who was Larra Rogare’s daughter.” _ He looked to Oberyn. “ _ And another Daenerys’ mother. Larra remarried after returning to Lys, and I am the last of her house.” _

_ “And why have you released your slaves?” _

Lucerys Rogare spread his arms wide, indicating Dany’s party and dragons. “ _ The last heir to Old Valyria stands before the gates of Lys, and a new age has come. It is not an age for chains.” _

Daenerys knew better than to believe him. But it was more than any noble had done in any of the cities she had conquered thus far. It was worth something to side with her before she had ripped all protections from them. For lack of anything to say she turned to the men.

“ _ And you, my lords? Why have you come? _ ”

“The magisters have sent us to seek peace.” Lynesse said, under the gaze of her male companions. She had the gentle accent of the Reach that Lady Olenna shared.

“What’s left of them, perhaps,” Daenerys noted, “very well. Please, sit.” She motioned to the chairs before her meant for her guests. A set of freedmen offered wine. “ _ What do the magisters of Lys wish from me _ ?”

“ _ Peace _ .” Ineacho sipped at his wine. “ _ With the Lysene fleet you have ships enough to take you all the way to Westeros. You are welcome to them. We will even send you craftsman and servants enough to sail you there. To replace the men that died in the battle. All we ask if that you accept this gift and sail on. _ ”

“ _ So you may slaughter more slaves and hang them from your walls? _ ” Dany had no raised dais here, but still she could look down on the man. “ _ I have not come to Westeros. I have come to Lys. And I will have her. _ ”

“ _ Take the slaves. All of them. _ ” Balliros insisted. “ _ We will give them to you, turn them out of the city with as much gold as they can carry for your war chest. Only leave us in peace. We ask for mercy. _ ”

“ _ Mercy _ ?” Dany’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “ _ I will show you the mercy you showed the slaves who sit upon your walls. _

“ _ This is what you will do. Return to your city and take the heads from your walls. Find the men who ordered their deaths and turn them over to me in chains. Free every slave in your city and give them as much gold as they can carry. Open the gates to me so that I might enter and name me as Empress of New Valyria. _ ” Daenerys had schooled her features, but the fury in her voice was a living thing.  _ “Then when I enter the city I will harm no man _ .”

“ _ Such demands are impossible. _ ” Tregar pleaded. “ _ Lys was founded on slavery. _ ”

“ _ Lys was founded by dragonlords, _ ” Daenerys corrected, “ _ and now the last dragonlord has come to claim what is hers. _ ”

“ _ You will lay waste to the trade of the city. You will be hated from Qarth to Norvos! _ ”

Behind her Drogon lifted his great head, his red eyes like fire pits in the night. His head pressed between her knights, who stepped back the moment they realized the dragon’s intent, and came to touch Dany’s shoulder. She lifted a hand to pet his nose. The movement had drawn Lynesse’s eyes to Jorah, who stared back at her without a word. All of the men were fixated upon the dragon.

“ _ Lys knows what happens when dragonlords are defied. Rhoynar, Andal, Ghiscari, Lyseni. All burn. _ ” Dany said, looking from one to the next. “ _ Return to your city. Remind them. _ ”

Only then did she look to Lucerys. “ _ Go in peace. No one will harm you for your loyalty. The lesson of the magisters would be repeated on any who dare. _ ”

~oOo~

The nobles left together as they had come. Lucerys Rogare with his freedmen, chests left behind, and the others in a storm of anger. Lynesse looked back as she climbed into her litter.

Once they were out of hearing range Oberyn laughed low in his chest. “It’s begun.”

“What has?” Dany asked, turning her head toward him while her eyes remained fixed on the retreating noblewomen.

“They have begun to turn on each other.” He reached out to the wine in one of the women’s hands. She released it, starting. Oberyn poured himself wine and handed the decanter back to her. “First you came to Slaver’s Bay and you destroyed the slavers. Then you came to Volantis and the slaves rebelled for your cause. And now you come to Lys, and the highborn know that there is no escape. No sellswords to come to their aid and no slave army to hide behind.”

“It is no longer in their interest to fight you.” Ellaria smoothed her skirts over her legs. “They know they can’t win.”

Daenerys remembered Cersei. Remembered Sansa Stark and her foolish Northmen. “Many men will fight when it’s hopeless to do so.”

“Not the intelligent ones.” Ellaria lifted a brow, clearly amused.

“Not all men are intelligent.” 

Oberyn laughed. “We cannot help that.”

“ _ Khaleesi?” _ Irri stepped into the pavilion from the side, hesitant to walk into Daenerys court of knights and nobles. 

Dany motioned her forward anyway, reaching out a hand to draw her close.  _ “What is it, inavva qoyi?” _

_ “There is a ship in the harbor. When it was boarded the men aboard said they were of Rhaesh Andahli. They ask for you, khaleesi.” _

A hole opened in Dany’s chest and her heart fell into it.  _ “Tell me of these men?” _

_ “There are two. One a dwarf who speaks the tongue of the Rhaesh Andahli and the other a bald man of the Free Cities.” _

Her breath was a death rattle. “ _ Bring them to me.” _ She spoke to her court next, in the Common Tongue. “We have more guests.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll post a chapter tomorrow for New Years :)


	31. Outside Lys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What kind of fool am I, to miss someone who was never mine to begin with?

There was something within Dany, something dark and cruel and terrible, that wanted to summon her children to her and burn not only the Westerosi that had come to her harbor, but their ship and sellswords besides.

Tyrion had come to her when all of Westeros despised him. In turn she had raised him to the second most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms. For this he had betrayed her for the family that had despised him since his first breath.

Dany had spent a long time thinking about the events leading up to her murder, in the early hours of the morning and the lonely days early in her rebirth. Tyrion had turned up when Dany was without allies, without anyone from her homeland at her side, to assure her that her quest for her father’s throne would be successful. He had freed her children and confirmed her desires, and Dany had clung to him like a drowning man to driftwood. 

What had he done for her? Given the masters seven more years of slavery, saved the lives of treacherous men, had her send Daario away because she was a woman, and proclaimed his belief in her and his acceptance of her as queen. For these things she had given him what he wanted - a place at her side. 

He had insisted she not attack the capitol, not out of any goodwill towards the smallfolk, but out of fear his treasonous, murderous sister with no claim to the throne would die. When her last son died Cersei should have returned to Casterly Rock and taken up the position as Lady of the Westerlands. Dany would not have begrudged her the position before she had murdered her child and her dearest friend. It was Cersei’s by right, for Tyrion was a kinslayer and Jaime a Kingsguard. Instead she had taken the throne for her own. 

And Drogon could have taken - did take- Kings Landing with no civilian casualties in under a day. When they cried to her about the perils of the smallfolk had they known that Cersei would invite them into the Keep once she realized her own peril? 

After saving the usurper queen’s life, he had led her to capture his ancestral home so that it might be his again, and convinced her she was too fragile to go south with Ellaria and Yara, leading to the decimation of her fleet and the death of her allies. Again and again he had tied her hands, insisted she was weak and frail and all the while seeding the fear that she was dangerous. And then he had vouched for the King in the North - and Jon, Jon is too painful to dwell on.

While he was busy controlling and undermining her, he had believed Jon’s stories about ice demons so ancient that the rest of the kingdoms had thought them myths. He had helped Jon mine dragonglass, and helped her capture a castle with no strategic value while losing her three valuable allies. And then he had had himself smuggled into the keep not to aid her, but to protect his siblings, to convince himself of his sister’s good intentions.

She had to wonder if he had surveyed the Battle of Blackwater the same way he had her attacks on the Lannister forces. Was he so horrified by the loss of all life, or just his people when they were killed by a foreign queen? Had he thrown things at his father and excused himself from Tywin’s service when he murdered Robb Stark’s wife and babe and army at the Red Wedding? Had he questioned him on Castamere and the burning of the Riverlands? Or was it only Targaryens who he doubted and questioned and betrayed?

Daenerys was the last of her house. She had no parents to teach her, no siblings to support her, no children to go on after her. There was no one to doubt her and fear her and stand by her anyway because she was blood. Ned Stark was not there to give her a home. Jaime Lannister would never hate her and curse her and fall to his knees weeping when she survived the war with the dead. 

Ser Barristan was asking what she wanted. She wanted Rhaegar Targaryen. She wanted Ellaria, warm and alive, in her arms. She wanted Daario to lie in her bed and look at her as though she was some mythical creature and not only daughter to a mad father. She wanted Drogo to storm in and take her face in his hands, and decide the fate of the man who had betrayed her. 

She said, “bring them.”

Something in her tone unsettled the knight. “It is said Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys have come to support you, Your Grace. They would be valuable to your cause.”

On the outskirts of her senses Oberyn spoke. “Jaime Lannister murdered his king. Tywin Lannister sent his monsters to the Red Keep. Amory Lorch stabbed my niece half a hundred times, and Gregor Clegane raped my sister with the blood of her son on his hands. Robert Baratheon saw their bodies before his throne and rewarded the lions with a queen. These men, they are all the same.”

We are not our fathers. Daenerys was not Aerys, Asha was not Balon, and Jon was not Rhaegar. Nor was he Ned Stark. And Tyrion was not Tywin. She had not sent Doreah from her service, not slain every slaver who had once fought against her… how could she kill them for things they had not done? For words they had never spoken? How could she kill them when she looked upon Tyrion’s face and remembered too much?

Ser Barristan had to prompt her attention when they came into the hall. Tyrion looked as he did when he first came to her. His clothes were finer and his travel method smoother, but he was still a dwarf. He had stubby legs, a jutting forehead, and mismatched eyes. His hair was as bright as pale, spun gold, his nose was slashed, and he had grown a beard. And Daenerys wanted to cry. Had she truly been such a terrible queen that his sister had been better?

Ser Jorah had one hand on the pommel of his sword, her nervousness affecting him. As the Westerosi stopped before her throne he spoke in a loud voice. “All hail Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt. Empress of Valyria, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, and Great Khal of the Dothraki. Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

“I am Tyrion Lannister, former Hand to Joffrey Baratheon,” Tyrion Lannister told the room at large, his eyes fixed on the dragons behind her, “and this is Lord Varys, King Aerys’ chosen spymaster.”

“Master of Coin and Master of Whispers for Joffrey Baratheon.” Oberyn was not drinking anymore. He leaned forward in his seat to watch the newcomers with a viper’s eyes.

“Not for Joffrey Baratheon,” Daenerys managed, although her voice sounded tight to her own ears. “The king is dead.”

“Long live the queen,” Nymeria said, from her place behind Oberyn. 

“Tywin Lannister is dead as well. His killer stands before us.” Dany wanted wine to chase the taste of  _ dracarys  _ from her mouth. She had nothing, and she did not think that if she drank she could keep it down. “Tell me why you have come to me.”

His eyes refocused on her. “When I was a young man, I heard a story about a baby born during the worst storm in living memory. She had no wealth, no lands, no army, only a name and a handful of supporters, most of whom probably thought they could use that name to benefit themselves. They kept her alive, moving her from place to place, often hours ahead of the men who had been sent to kill her. She was eventually sold off to some warlord on the edge of the world and that appeared to be that. And then a few years later the most well informed person I knew told me that this girl without wealth, lands, or armies had somehow acquired all three in a very short span of time, along with three dragons.” He glanced at Varys. “He thought she was our best, last chance to build a better world. I thought you were worth meeting at the very least.”

She did not ask him if he was worth meeting. Dany wished he had never come to Lys. That his ship had sank in the Narrow Sea, that he had been caught fleeing his father’s rooms and killed, that he had died in his mother’s birthing bed. It would save her the trouble of deciding if she should burn him or drown him or feed him to her children, or if she must do as a queen would and accept her enemy into her service because there was nowhere he was less threatening.

“You are a kinslayer and a kingslayer.” She said instead. “Tell me why I should not turn you away.” 

“Because you cannot build a better world on your own. I understand the land you want to rule, the strengths and weaknesses of the houses who will either join or oppose you.”

“Tell me, Oberyn,” she bid, without looking away from Tyrion, “do you understand the land I wish to rule?”

“I understand that a Lannister bastard sits the Iron Throne and that Highgarden has tied themselves to his illegitimate reign.” Her paramour almost snarled. “I understand that these men have supported and defended those that saw my sister, your sister, raped and murdered after our niece and nephew were killed before her.”

“Revenge and politics are not the same thing. When I served as Hand of the King I did quite well with the latter, considering the king in question preferred torturing animals to leading his people. I could do an even better job advising the ruler worth the name. If that is indeed what you are.”

“You want to advise her.” Oberyn interjected, before Dany could spit out that the traitor who stood before her had no right to question her worth. “You want to earn her trust so you can betray her for your nephew.”

“I killed my own father,” Tyrion said, “I am accused of killing my nephew, and although I did not do so I almost wish I had. He was a terrible boy, and that is not to say what kind of king he was. You cannot say I hold any loyalty to my family.”

“And you, Spider,” Oberyn continued as though he had not been interrupted, “you served Aerys Targaryan, you served Robert Baratheon, you served the bastard Joffrey, and now, what, you mean to serve Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Robert was an improvement on Aerys, I admit,” Varys said. The room went deathly silent. “There have been few rulers in history as cruel as the Mad King. Robert was neither mad nor cruel; he simply had no interest in being king.”

“So you took it upon yourself to find a better one?” Daenerys asked. “Before I came to power you favored my brother. All your spies, did they tell you Viserys was cruel, stupid, and weak? Would those qualities have made for a good king in your learned opinion?”

“Until your marriage to Khal Drogo, Your Grace, I knew nothing about you-”

“That is not what I asked.”

“I am loyal to the realm, Your Grace. My loyalties lie with the people.”

“The people,” Oberyn turned to her fully, “Lord Varys was brought to Kings Landing by your father. He told your father that Rhaegar wished to rally the high lords to his side at Harrenhal, and so Aerys attended to insure Rhaegar could not. If not for this man, he would not have attended. He had not left the Red Keep in years. And perhaps there would have been no war. No dead princesses. Is this how one supports a man who offers peace and stability over one who he calls mad and cruel?”

“And then Robert sat the throne, a man who did not want to be king, but a man who was well-supported and stable beyond any doubt,” Daenerys noted, “and he sought the Mad King’s son to crown. I am only a young girl, and know little of politics, but it seems that you want a male Targaryen on the throne above all else, Lord Varys.”

“There are no more male Targaryens,” Tyrion interjected gently.

“And if I should bear a son what shall we do?” Dany pressed, the taste of the words bitter in her mouth. “Am I to be cast aside for my brother’s nephew?”

Oberyn was smirking, but no one save the Dornish seemed pleased at this bit of history. Nor was Daenerys pleased. Now she must either return a Targaryen loyalist to the world, or keep him at her side, or kill him. If she killed him she would lose valuable information, and Tyrion would mistrust her. If she kept him he would turn against her the moment he knew of Jon Snow’s heritage. Not to mention that she now had a Lannister lion of no use to her that she could not kill and could not cast out. She would rather give his brother the Westerlands. At least if he was to kill her he would do it with a blade and not sweet words.

“You say you wish to enter my service,” she continued when neither Tyrion nor Varys could find words, “but I would know if you truly want me to be your queen. You did not come to me of your own accord, when Robert or Joffrey sat the throne. If you wish to play the Game you must have a monarch, and it seems I am the only one who might have you.

“What will you do if I kill every slaver in Lys? If I burn Tyrosh to the ground? If I take Kings Landing with fire and blood as Aegon the Conqueror did? Will I still be your queen when I am not obedient and weak? When I do not bow to your council? When I am a king and a warrior? A dragonlord? Will I still be your queen then?”

When I kill your sister, she meant. When there is another Targaryen for you to flock to. One with more between his legs than I.

Daenerys stood. “ _ Grey Worm, assign these men guards day and night. Unsullied guards. Qezza, please, find them quarters according to their station.” _

She left them there, Irri’s arm clutched in her hands as she retreated from her own pavillion. From her own instincts. Behind her, the lion and the spider were left under the Red Viper’s gaze. If by tomorrow Oberyn had killed them both she might not find it within herself to be upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is just another Westerosi who doesn’t care about slaves; Varys is another chessmaster who moves pieces as he pleases.
> 
> But they were something else, once. Something more. And with her rage long since burned out, Dany remembers what the strangers before her once were. Between their beginning and their end.


	32. Outside Lys III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany is well used to murderous Essosi; but she had not realized until too late that in Westeros one didn’t hire an army to defeat a queen.

“Khaleesi?”

Dany had abandoned her fine gown and heavy jewelry, untied the intricate braids against her scalp, and tucked herself into the white  _ hrakkar _ skin that Drogo had given her. On most days Daenerys did not miss her khal. For all that he had become to her, for all that he had given her, she had been sold to him like a broodmare and taken against her will until she wished for death. She did not want that life back. 

But right now she wished that there was someone else to make this decision for her. Someone to be strong in her stead, to stand between her and the weight of the world. There was no one left in this world to protect her. Rhaegar had been dead before she was born, and Viserys, who was supposed to protect her, had sold her and sealed his fate by trying to murder her babe. The last person who could take this burden from her had died. 

“Come in, Jorah,” she said. 

He brushed aside the tent flap, and came to stand before the furs Dany was wrapped in. She watched him, the lion head covering hers, hair spilling over her shoulders. Jorah almost did not dare look at her. His gaze lingered too long on the skin visible under the pelt, then darted away to fix on something beyond her. “You know I was wed to Lynesse. What I did for her.”

“Yes, you told me. I am sorry if her presence pained you.”

“She traded my love and loyalty for the life of a wealthy concubine.” Her bear grimaced. “And now she seeks to use the love I held for her to turn me from you.”

“I admit, I was rather surprised that they sent her to speak for them. They must know what happened, of the bad blood between you and her.”

“When I last left Lys I was a disgraced knight and indebted sellsword, and Lynesse was chief concubine to Tregar Ormollen.” Jorah’s focus shifted to her again, meeting her gaze. “I would not have left her if I had no other choice. They sent her not to barter with you, but to sway me.”

“Sway you?” Dany echoed, confused. “To do what? Take back your wife and protect the city from my wrath?”

“They want rid of you,  _ Khaleesi. _ They don’t care how.”

For a moment they stared at each other, silent. Jorah looked guilty, but had done nothing wrong. Daenerys knew him too well to think that he would harm her. “Jorah-”

“I would never-”

“I know. You have been loyal to me since before I was a queen. Before I was the Mother of Dragons.” She could not find it in her to be surprised. All the slavers wanted her dead. It was not a secret. “Although why they would choose you I do not know.”

“It wasn’t their first choice. I think perhaps I was their last,” Jorah admitted, “Lynesse said that they had tried to hire a Faceless Man and were turned away.”

The name triggered a dull memory, something not from this life but the last. For a moment, Daenerys was silent as she tried to recall it, but it eluded her. It did not surprise her that they had tried to hire assassins, only...

“ _ Khaleesi _ ,” the knight said, “I had thought I still loved Lynesse. Even after all she had done. Seeing her again, I do not love her. I-”

“Do not,” Daenerys interrupted, more sharply than she had intended. Her voice sounded wrong even to her own ears, and so she said it again. “Do not.”

Once her knight had told her that Lynesse looked like she did. Daenerys had known then that he loved her as he had loved his wife; not as a knight loves his queen but as a man loves a woman. She had known it long before they stood overlooking Vaes Dothrak and he had told her that he was dying. 

“Jorah, you have been a better friend to me than any I have ever known, a better brother than Viserys ever was. You are the first of my Queensguard, the commander of my army, my most valued counselor, my good right hand. I honour and respect and cherish you - but I do not desire you.”

There were no words that could lessen such a blow, but it was one that must be given. To do otherwise would be unfair to the knight. She would not lead him into thinking he may yet win her if only he tried hard enough. His eyes remained on the ground before him, not daring to look up.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she answered. “Find a woman, any woman. In the Free Cities or Westeros or Yi Ti, and I will give you a lordship and my blessing.”

“There is no one else.” He looked at her as though she had hung the moon and stars. “There never will be.”

“It is a great, wide world, my bear,” she told him, although some part of her hardly believed it, “there is someone for all of us.”

Once she had thought Jon Snow was hers. The Northern king. The last of her house. Now her heart was a traitor to her soul. She knew Jon had done her ill, as Drogo had, but one could not make themselves not love.

~oOo~

Daenerys ate dinner in Ellaria and Oberyn’s tent.

They had invited Tyrion and Varys, although if it was to gauge the loyalties of the newcomers or taunt them over the emenity between their houses she could not tell. Dany was given the head of the table, with Oberyn to her right and Tyrion to her left. She had wanted to bring her guards with her, but settled for a sword at her hip and the unsettling sound of Rhaegal tearing into their latest sheep just beyond the tent.

In the war camp there was not much variety of food, but still Ellaria had found a way to make long peppers stuffed with cheese and onions, and Dornish strongwine as dark as blood. They were spicier than even the peppered horseflesh of the Dothraki, but Dany ate and sipped at her wine and pretended she was not sitting next to men who would betray her as soon as swear to her.

How had they lived so long, in this Game they played? Viserys and Robert alike would have executed them for half so much as they did to her, and what Joffrey or Aerys would have done would have been twice as cruel. Dany drank her wine and listened to Oberyn’s barbs, and did not muse on what their heads would look like over Kings Landing.

“Tell me, Lord Tyrion. How is the capitol.”

“The same as when you were last in it, I suppose.” Tyrion told him, drinking heavily from his glass. “Sour wine and rotting fish, smoke and sweat and horse piss. The city and her kings as well.”

“I am told it is different for Lannisters,” Oberyn replied, “they come to love the city.”

“They come to love power.” He rolled the wine in the glass, staring at it. “My sister was Robert’s queen.” He drank. “Now she imagines herself her son’s regent. And now she has almost achieved what she wished for for so long.”

“Freedom from the men around her?” Ellaria asked.

“Me.” Tyrion lifted his glass to his lips and finished off the remainder of it. “Dead.”

“That, at least, is true.” Oberyn said. Tyrion eyed him over his empty wine glass, and the Dornishman filled his glass from the decanter before placing it back down, where Tyrion could reach it. “We met, you and I. Many years ago.”

“I think I would have remembered that.”

“Not likely. You had just been born. My mother brought me and my sister with him to Casterly Rock. All anyone talked of all the way to the Rock was the monster that had been born to Tywin Lannister. A head twice the size of his body, a tail between his legs, claws, one red eye, the privates of both a girl and a boy.”

“That would have made things so much easier,” Tyrion noted. He filled his wine glass and near drained it again. Daenerys knew from experience that he was approaching too drunk, but it was not hers to stop him. He was not hers anymore.

Oberyn continued as though Tyrion had said nothing. “Your sister promised to show you to us. Every day we would ask and she would say “soon.” Then she and your brother took us to your nursery and she unveiled the fiend. Your head was a bit large, your arms and legs a bit strong, but no claws, no red eye, no tail between your legs just a tiny pink cock.”

The prince shrugged. “We didn’t try to hide our disappointment. “That’s not a monster,” I told Cersei, “that’s just a baby.” And she said, “he killed my mother.” She pinched your little cock so hard I thought she might pull it off, until your brother made her stop. “It doesn’t matter,” she told us, “Everyone said he will die soon. I hope they are right. He should not have lived this long.””

“Well,” Tyrion looked as though he might be near crying, “sooner or later Cersei always get what she wants.”

Daenerys remembered the broken body of Cersei Lannister as they carried her out of the Red Keep. Tyrion had bid them to take her and his brother to Casterly Rock, where they might be laid to rest as his ancestors were. It was his last act as her Hand before his arrest. He had cared for her even after she was gone, and she had treated him terribly for his entire life. No one would ever love Dany that much. Not her own blood nor any lovers. If she was Aegon then Elia’s babes had been her Visenya and Rhaenys, and Daenerys was doomed to live and die alone. 

“I doubt your sister wished for the death of her son at a wedding, Lord Tyrion,” Ellaria said. 

Oberyn laughed, low and dark. “The last time I was in your city it was for another wedding.” He told Tyrion, his voice conversational. “My sister Elia to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. The last dragon. She loved him, bore his children, swaddled them, rocked them, fed them at her own breast. Elia wouldn’t let the wetnurse touch them.” He twisted the knife, knowing that his torment of the Lannister before him would not turn back on him. 

“My father is dead, Prince Oberyn. What more do you want?”

Dany took the decanter of wine off the table before Tyrion could take it up again. “We want the Iron Throne that belonged to my father. The one your family stole with the bodies of innocent children.”

She wanted Tyrion’s true loyalty, and Ser Jaime’s sword, and Cersei Lannister’s head. Jon Snow’s heart and Lady Sansa’s honor. Daenerys wanted a family. Stability and safety. The house with the red door in Braavos. If she could have none of them, then she would give what she could to those who were hers.

“We want justice, Lord Tyrion. That’s what kings are for.”

He sat his empty glass on the table, frowning. “The kings I have served did no justice.”

Daenerys smiled. “That is why they shall have a queen.”


	33. Outside Lys IV

In his efforts to gain Daenerys’ favor, Tyrion had produced a design for a simple dragon saddle.

It had worked, in that the queen had accepted the gift; it had not worked, in that Dany still was not speaking to him except when she had to. And, as Daenerys was the ruling queen of the camp that he currently resided in, she never had to speak to him. Privately, Dany thought it was an excellent gift. He had found something she both enjoyed and required, and used his personal skills to give her something relevant. 

Even more privately, for there was no real reason for her to dislike Tyrion Lannister, it made Dany furious. She had made this man her Hand, and, while he had spent untold hours discussing treason and trying to control her, he had not thought to help her in such an important way. Was it that he did not want her to use her dragons in war? Or that, once she had given him what he wanted, he saw no reason to find new ways to help?

She was sick of thinking of it. Thus she had left him and Varys to two small tents guarded at all times by Unsullied. The temptation to send them both to Volantis was strong, except that she suspected they would either attempt to control Volantis by introducing Westerosi customs or leave to return to her. So she kept them in her camp, and hoped they would be struck by an enemy attack. It would save her the decision of what to do with them.

There would be days to come when Dany could ride on Drogon’s neck, but for now the safest place was his shoulders, just behind the joints where great black wings joined to his body. The saddle borrowed its seat from those the Dothraki used, with two thick leather straps running down either shoulder to connect to a great ring in the center of his chest. Two more straps connected the ring to a second, behind his wings and just before his legs. That led up, connecting together before attaching to the back of the saddle. 

A shaking Volantene blacksmith was required to take the measurements, but no one save Dany dared approach Drogon with the completed saddle. Her son considered her as she explained the use of the leather and Valyrian steel she had brought to him. When she secured it over his scales he huffed, irritable, but allowed her to work. His wings spread once she had finished, testing the saddle. He took a few steps on the ground, then leapt into the air.

It had taken several practice runs for Daenerys to become comfortable, but now she was as at ease on Drogon’s saddle as she had ever been on her silver’s. And, while she had never fallen from her son’s back, she suspected that less experienced riders would appreciate the security it gave.

Lys was surrounded on three sides by Dothraki calvary and freedman soldiers, and on the fourth by their own fleet which had taken over the harbor. Her army, like that of Volantis, was made primarily of slaves, and Lys had learned from the disaster of their fleet. They did not dare to send their army of 15,000 to face the Targaryen forces.

The siege had lasted over a month. Daenerys knew there was food enough within the city that the Lyseni could wait years for her to turn away. But they did not have years. Walls and men were enough to keep out an army, but in mere months Drogon would be large enough to break the walls of a city. It was only a matter of time.

Thus it was that when the gates of Lys opened for a second time her advisors were surprised. Jorah thought it might be a ploy, while Tyrion - and did Tyrion count as one of her advisors? She had not asked his opinion - said that Lys might send more envoys. Oberyn had smiled at her, all teeth, and told her that if she wished to know what the Lyseni were doing she should go and see.

And so she had.

As she circled over the city, high enough so that no bolts could touch them, a stream of slaves began to trickle out of the city. Once the gates were fully opened, so wide that her children could have entered abreast, from the barbican above there was movement. A rush of soldiers, a tramp of feet, and then ropes were cut and a great banner was released.

Dany had to bank to see it, turning Drogon away from the city. It fell slowly, aided by the wind. Black fabric gave way to red until the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens was unveiled above the gates. From the windows above it stretched to the very top of the gates, twice the size of the banner that hung above her pyramid in Meereen. 

When she looked down the slaves were headed by a woman on a dappled grey. Dany came low, flying just out of arrow range. A scream rose from the freedmen behind her, first of  _ zaldrīzes _ (dragon) and cries of fear, then of  _ Gēlion Dāria _ (Silver Queen) and a hundred heads turned to look, and lastly of  _ dāerves _ . As Drogon flew over the head of the rider Daenerys saw that an old woman rode her. 

She and Drogon landed before the people, the crackle of her son’s excitement stilling both their voices and their feet. More and more freedmen poured out of Lys to stand before the dragon. Some pushed forward to see her son, while others retreated to the inner crowd. Yet all would rather stand before the maw of a dragon rather than in a city with slavers.

Behind Dany her armies march, ready to secure the city even at such short notice. The days to come will be full of politics and frustration and fear, but she would do it all again for what she sees now. For the people she can save. If this is what the gods intended her to do with her new life, then they must be pleased with her. And if it is not, then they should not have returned her to this world.

~oOo~

Her children take wing while Daenerys and her advisors are shown to a manse. It is one of the largest in the city, but most of her army will be forced to remain outside. Remembering the lessons of Meereen, Dany ordered that no man shall walk about alone. He must always be accompanied by at least one, more if possible. 

In Volantis, Daenerys had dismantled the slavers completely. She had taken their homes, their property, their coin, and distributed it throughout the city in an effort to both weaken the former masters and provide the freedmen with everything they could need. But in Volantis it had been a true conquest. Lys had opened their gates to her, and it would bring nothing but bad blood to rip the nobles from their homes.

She instead sent Nymeria out to find out which nobles supported her rule, and summoned the magisters of the city to her. They came to her in all their finery, brought chests of beautiful silks and heavy gold bars and sweet perfumes. Dany had spent long enough in Lys as a child to know that they were expensive beyond her wildest dreams. Yet what was money compared to the lives of these men.

This time no one dared to bring slaves before her. Instead Qezza of the Ghiscari stood before Dany’s throne, her queen in leather rather than silk, and introduced the men who came into her. Standing before the simple wooden throne, the High Magister of Lys fell to his knees. “ _ Empress Daenerys, how may we humble men serve you? _ ” Innan Irrirah pressed his face to the cold marble floor.

“ _ These are the Magisters of War, Trade, Law, and Justice, then?”  _ She asked him. 

_ “Yes, Glorious Queen.” _

_ “And you are the HIgh Magister.” _

_ “I am. We serve at your pleasure. ” _

He said pretty words, she thought. Most men did when faced with their own death. “ _ We will need an election to name new magisters. There will be two for each position. This counsel will rule in my absence.” _

“ _ Magisters rule for life, oh magnificent Empress.” _

“ _ It is a new age, Magister.” _ Daenerys told him. And indeed it was, with these great noblemen of Lys knelt at the feet of a woman in trousers and leather boots. “ _ Empires rise, dragons are born, and slaves walk as free men. Old Valyria is young again.” _

“My Queen,” Nymeria interjected softly, “there are certain protections generally afforded when a city is turned over to an incoming monarch.”

Protections she called them. She had not lived when Astapor burned and Yunkai rose against her. But there was something to what she said. What city would turn itself over to a queen who would destroy them? 

“And what of the slaves? What protections did these men afford them?” Dany asked her. She spoke again to the magisters. “ _ The noblemen I will allow to keep their homes. All other property will be turned over to those who can use them. I will give fields to farmers and ships to sailors. Any nobleman is welcome to lay a claim, so long as he can care for the property himself. _

_ “The wealth of the city will be mine. A bank will be opened. Any nobleman can request a loan. Any freedman may request a loan as well, or might be given coin due to the years of service to his former master.” _

Silently the nobles looked at each other.  _ “And who shall run this bank, Celebrated Queen?” _

_ “Those same freedmen who once ran the monies of your households.”  _ The men of Lys did not like this, she could see, but it mattered little to her what they liked. This was a surrender, not an alliance. 

“ _ Those who were slaves may not be the best choice to-” _

_ “You question our Queen?” _ Nymeria demanded. Her accent was more Volantene than Valyrian, but Dany supposed she could forgive that. In this life and the last Nymeria had sworn to Daenerys, and had never betrayed her. The intentions of the Dornishwoman was to see Dany on the Iron Throne. And whatever needed to be done to see her there she would do.

_ “There is one other thing. Those responsible for hanging the slaves on the walls will be brought for trials.” _

The High Magister paused before he replied.  _ “Most illustrious Queen, this was done under the orders of the Magister of Slaves, who you in your great wisdom have killed.” _

_ “Do not worry yourselves,” _ Dany replied, “ _ I will not trouble you to bring them before me.” _


	34. Lys V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys wanted a home, but to so many she was home. Mhysa. Mother to us all.

“Khaleesi?” Dany’s eyes lifted in her mirror to find Doreah lingering in the doorway behind her. In the dim light of the candles her pale blonde hair glowed like Dany’s own.

“Come in, Doreah,” she said, fingers still knotted in her hair. 

Her handmaid stepped into the room, handed folded before her. “I had a boon to ask of you.”

A lifetime ago, Doreah had abandoned her in Qarth. Before that (after that?) she had been given to her as a slave and taught Dany how to please Drogo. Had saved her life. They had crossed the Dothraki Sea and the Red Waste together, and then they had not. This Doreah had never carried infant dragons across the desert, and never turned on Dany for a powerful man.

“What can I do for you?” Doreah crossed the floor, taking over the rebraiding of the strands that Dany had been struggling to fix. She didn’t dare meet Dany’s eyes in the mirror.

“I was born in Lys, I told you once?” Doreah’s pale hair curled beautifully over her wispy dress. She brushed it over her shoulders as she worked.

“You did. You said you were sold to a pleasure house when you were nine.” 

Doreah’s hands were quicker than Danys own, and she smoothed out the strands of hair and began to rebraid them with quick, easy movements. “I was. For fifteen years I was a slave in a pleasure house. I want- if it please you,  _ Khaleesi _ , I would remain in Lys when you leave.”

“If that is what you desire, you may. You are not a slave, Doreah. I freed you when  _ Khal _ Drogo died.” Doreah’s betrayal had been the first. Before Jorah admitted to reporting to the Usurper, before Tyrion gave her advice to spare his family rather than take the throne, before Varys turned on her for her lack of a cock, and so, so long before Jon Snow had buried a dagger in her heart. It had hurt Daenerys deeply, but if it had been the only treason she had ever suffered she should weep in gratitude.

Behind her, a smile flashed across Doreah’s face. “Thank you,  _ Khaleesi. _ I will be no trouble to the city, I swear it. I can find a place in a pleasure house again.”

“Only if you wish to,” Dany said, firm, “if you would rather I can find a place for you in the new government.”

Her eyes darted up to meet Dany’s in the mirror. “Truly? I know little about governing, but I will do anything you ask.”

“I will make you a Speaker, if you will let me. You would speak on behalf of the freedmen who were bedslaves and who remain in pleasure houses.” Dany lifted a hand to touch hers, where her fingers were still tangled in silver hair. “I have need of those who know the life of a slave and will speak for their fellows.”

With quick movements she finished off the braid and secured it. When Dany turned on her seat to look up at her, Doreah’s blue eyes met her own. “You are generous,  _ Khaleesi _ . I- I fear I have wronged you. You deserve to know. Daario came to my bed after we took Volantis. I did not… pursue him, but I did lay with him. I should not have done so.”

“Daario is… no longer my paramour. I expect he went to you in an effort to change my decision in that.” Or to see if another pale-haired woman would be able to replace Daenerys herself. But no matter his reasoning, he had done nothing that Dany had not permitted him to do when she had broken off their relationship. She grasped at the hands Doreah had clasped in front of herself. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Men are foolish creatures,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Doreah told her, “I should have turned him away.”

“And he should never have made advances on my handmaids. Doreah, you do not have to accept anyone you do not wish to. You are not a slave, and you never shall be again.” Dany had not been able to embrace most people since she walked from the fire. Since her lover had killed her. Ser Jorah and Ellaria were notable exceptions. She could not bring herself to hug Doreah, but she hoped her grip on the older woman’s hands told her what Dany could not. “I will have rooms suited to a Speaker found for you.”

Doreah squeezed back. “If you have no objection, I would like to bring my little sister with me.”

“You have a sister? You never told me.”

“She was younger than I, sold after me. I did not think I would ever see her again. She found me, in truth.”

“You are both welcome here.” Dany assured her. “For as long as you will stay. I would not have anyone serve in a pleasure house who does not wish to.”

“In Lys many people consider it a religious act to serve in certain places.” Doreah said, “in honor of the goddess Irogenia.”

“And many do not. It is the choice that matters, not the work.” 

“Thank you,  _ Khaleesi,  _ a thousand times,” She clung to her hands for a moment, before releasing her.

When she had gone, Dany sat alone. 

It was one thing to forgive a lifelong slave for a wrong done in a master’s name. Not so the betrayals of the Westerosi. She kept Varys and Tyrion because killing them or turning them away would hurt her cause. But she knew that the moment the choice became available Varys would turn on her. That when she no longer focused on Essos Tyrion would choose his family over her. 

The dragon inside her wanted to kill them. To burn away their treachery with fire and blood. Would Westeros truly miss their traitorous spymaster and kinslaying Lannister? She could not take Westeros with Varys at her side. That much was clear. But Tyrion? Once he had been her closest advisor. She had taken a man wanted for kinslaying and kingslaying and made him her Hand. In turn, he had betrayed her for his sister at every turn. 

Dany did not need to kill him. She could turn him over to his beloved family and they would do the work for her. In truth, it was that she did not want to kill him. Just like she did not want to kill Jon Snow. Once the bone-deep fury had burned away she had been left in the ashes of her love. And she had loved him. Even after the way his people treated her, after he had spurned her, after he had chosen his family over her, she had loved him. And she had died for it.

Was she meant to kill every high lord in Westeros? If Tyrion and Jon had chosen their families over their honor she could expect every last Westerosi to. And if the advisors who had chosen her turned against her for her gender and for her fire then so would the high lords. If she was to burn Tyrion and Varys then why not them?

Daenerys pressed the heel of her hand to the corner of her eye. It would not do for Lys’ new monarch to be seen weeping in her own court. She gathered her skirts in one hand and stood, searching for the link to Drogon and finding her son frightening sailors with his fishing. His fire washed over her, and for one sweet moment she was not a queen with a thousand decisions upon her shoulders, but a dragon. 

She was a conqueror. Better suited to fire and blood than politics and ruling. But if she was all the world had offered, then she must do what she could. Once, Daenerys had lived a life hoping for a home. But the Westerosi were not her people, and never would be. 

~oOo~

Lys was as Volantis and Meereen before it. Men who hid their hatred behind smiling faces, and women who tittered behind their hands and watched her with cold eyes. It was a city of slavers, and Dany would never be a slaver. They mistook her kindness for weakness and sought to exploit her generosity.

They were the Brave Companions who came to her brother’s feast and scorned him. They were Jorah Mormont joining her in Pentos and sending word to the Usurper. They were Mirri Maz Duur who Dany gave her protection and killed her husband in return. They were Xaro Xhoan Daxos who offered her marriage and coveted her dragons. They were Varys and Tyrion and Jon Snow. 

Even declawed they were yet fierce.

After the feast she allowed Jorah to escort her to her rooms. The knight seemed uncomfortable in the fine Lysene silks and thick crowd, but once they were away from the main hall he smiled more and spoke more gently. When they came to the door to her rooms he glanced over his shoulder.

“Might I speak with you in private,  _ Khaleesi _ ?”

She did not want to send the knight from her tonight, to reopen half-closed wounds, but still she nodded. “Come in, Ser Jorah. What can I do for you?” On the table near the far windows there were a selection of wines: Arbor gold, Dornish strongwine, and Lysene white wine. 

As Dany made her way to it Ser Jorah hovered behind her. “Lynesse spoke with me today.”

“Would you like Arbor gold, Ser Jorah?” Daenerys poured her own glass with the Lysene wine. When Ellaria and Oberyn retired from the feast they would likely break into the strongwine, but it was too much for Dany tonight.

“No,  _ Khaleesi _ , thank you. She wanted me to speak to you of the city.” He took the glass she handed him, glancing into it. 

“I would imagine everyone would like you to speak to me of the city. Her merchant prince has lost all of his trade and most of his fleet, as have most of the city. When slaves rule the city the masters seek what ears they can.” Dany drank deep, brushing her blue skirts aside as she sat in one of the chairs. 

Ser Jorah might have taken the other, but instead he stood before her. “She wanted me to take her back as my wife, and convince you to leave the city in my hands.”

“And do you want the city?” 

“No. I have never wanted to rule.” His eyes told her the words he could not say. He wanted her, and he could not have her. He feared that to press the subject was to destroy what he had now. “Where you go I will follow.”

She pretended that she did not hear the words behind the words. “I understand what it is to have no family in this world, Jorah. If you wish to stay with her I will release you from your vows.”

Her bear studied her violet eyes for a long moment. “She doesn’t want me. She wants the life she had before. She never wanted me.  _ Khaleesi _ , when you were wife to Khal Drogo you did not tell him that horses and grasslands were not the life you wished to live. You did not seek another man to give you jewels and silks.”

No man in the world would have fought a khalasar 40,000 strong for a penniless princess. And Drogo would not have listened to her if she had asked. Instead of saying such, she said. “Drogo is dead now.” 

“But we are not. The freedmen call you ‘mother’, Daenerys. You are not alone.”

Dany had to brace herself before she spoke, lest her voice betray her by breaking into a thousand pieces. She was the blood of the dragon, and the dragon did not weep. “When I cross the Narrow Sea I cannot trust the advice of any man. Tyrion will seek his sister’s safety, not my cause. Cersei is terrible and cruel. She would kill him if she could, and still he will defend her to his last breath. There is no one in this world who is my blood. Who would defy the gods for me even if I was a monster.”

“You could never be a monster.” Jorah said. Her bear had ever given her good advice, even when he spoke of her like the wildlings had spoken of Jon Snow. Like they couldn’t quite believe he was real. “I swear to you, not as my Queen or the Mother of Dragons, but as a girl who was wed to a horselord on the edge of the world. As Daenerys Targaryen. You could lose all of your dragons and armies and wealth. You could burn the world to the ground. When you sit in the ashes I will still stand beside you.”

There were tears on the edge of her vision, threatening to fall. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I promised I would take you home.”

“Meereen’s pyramids or the Dothraki Sea or Old Valyria herself. I will follow you wherever you go. If we cannot return home then we will make one.”

A sob was torn from her throat. She loosened the death grip she had held on her glass and threw herself forward. The knight caught her, fumbled, held her tight as she wept. He had died for her, once. And how here he stood, letting her cry into his shoulder. Somehow it only made the loss worse.


	35. Lys VI

It had been a hard lesson, but once learned she had never forgotten it.

Danerys had learned it from the Sons of the Harpy, from the Wise Masters of Yunkai, from House Lannister, and, most importantly, from Jon Snow. It was the same lesson that Aegon V had learned that had made him wish so strongly for a dragon that he burned down Summerhall. No matter how well-intentioned a noble may seem they will always resist change meant to support the smallfolk. Those in power do not give it away easily.

And so, while Lucerys Rogare courted her favor, Dany gave the highest positions within her government to former slaves. Elections took weeks on end, and no matter who was chosen to rule, the government would always have needs they could not meet. She raised a freedman who had once controlled his master’s vast estate and monies to the head of the newly founded Bank of Lys. A freedman who had risen from fieldhand to estate manager as a slave was given authority over all of the lands she had taken from noblemen. And an elderly freedman who had been brought from Yunkai to Lys in her youth was now an overseer of all brothels within Lys.

The freedmen needed help, it was true, but better to teach them how to rule than teach slavers to care for those under their hand. Slaves were expected to learn new things at anytime, while those over them stagnated in their luxury. If Dany was to break their chains then she must also offer them a hand up.

More interestingly, Lucerys seemed to have misconceptions about Daenerys’ advisors.

They are thus: a daughter to a conquered khal and a former Lysene bedslave, an exiled Northern knight, three young Dothraki men who are blood of her blood, the commander the Unsullied chose and a noble girl of Meereen, a white knight of her father’s Kingsguard, the younger Prince of Dorne and his lovely, deadly bastard daughter, and gentle, peaceful Ellaria Sand. 

They are not high lords and ennobled slavers and merchant princes. It is not that those did not flock to Daenerys, coveting her dragons and titles, but that Dany had no need for the highborn. Hers are the scorned and enslaved and exiled. 

(For all of Tyrion’s seeping wounds dealt at the hands of his family, he was still highborn. And for all that Varys had been a slave once, he was no more given to sympathy for the freedmen than any other Westerosi lord.)

Lucerys sought to secure a position beside Daenerys, and it seemed he had decided that his best option to do so was to gain the loyalty of one of the Westerosi at her side. His choices are a dwarf, an eunuch, an old man, a bastard girl, Lynesse’s husband, and Daenerys’ paramours. He is not foolish enough to try his hand at Oberyn and Ellaria - although he might have found his best luck there - but he is willing to make an attempt with Jorah. Unfortunately for him, the knight had no eye for men, even when they are as beautiful as Lucerys was.

When that failed, he took up with Tyrion. He had better luck there, it was true, but quickly came to the realization that, while he was trying to use Tyrion to get closer to Daenerys, Tyrion was using  _ him _ to get closer to Daenerys. It was more amusing than anything Dany had yet seen in this life, the mutual realization. Worse, Tyrion was more successful at it, because at least Lucerys was invited to her council meetings. 

While the Rogares had once been the greatest family in Lys their influence had greatly fallen. This was why a son from the female line greeted Daenerys. He was the last of their line in Lys, and had no better options than freeing what few slaves he had in an effort to gain the favor of the Dragon Queen. 

Lucerys Rogare was not the only Lyseni who courted Dany’s attentions. 

She sent for Lynesse to be brought not into her audience room, but to join her in breaking her fast. The kitchens laid out horse sausage, sweet pastries with blackberry preserves, and soft-boiled eggs alongside mint tea. Lynesse, some ten years older than Dany herself, arrived in green velvets trimmed in white, with a silver chain around her neck. Now that Dany could look at her properly she saw that Lynesse did indeed look quite like her. Her hair was champagne, and in the right light her blue eyes would look purple. She was very beautiful.

“Thank you for joining me,” Dany said, as the woman took the seat across from her. 

“It is my honor, Your Grace.” Her voice was sweet as a spring wind, but she watched what food Dany took and mimicked her. Seeing this, Dany refreshed her tea and took a bit of everything onto her plate. It would not do for her to think that an invitation to see the queen meant poisoning.

“I had thought we might get to know each other a bit better. It can hardly be done when speaking of cities and slaves.” Lynesse wore finery from Lys, while Daenerys was dressed in blue and white, her skirt pleated and long. Of the two, Dany looked more like the Westerosi.

“You are very kind, Your Grace,” she poured herself tea and sipped at it. “I know what you must have heard of me. That I was vain and proud and jealous.”

Dany looked at her as she cut into an egg. “Men say many things. Once it was said of me that I bathed in the blood of maidens to retain my youth. Tell me, Lady Lynesse, were you vain and proud and jealous?”

Lynesse took a bite of one of the pastries filled with sweet cream. When she had swallowed it she said, “Perhaps I was. Many young girls are. This is what I know: I was Jorah Mormont’s prize for winning a tourney. I was used to the lifestyle my father’s house provided, and disappointed by Bear Island. In the end, my husband sold poachers into slavery, and instead of accepting the choices of the Wall or execution he fled to the Free Cities. Because of his choice, I could not return to my father’s house and remarry. 

“Instead we spent half a year fighting and barely living. I had bread and water once a day at times. He was away often, and a merchant caught sight of me one day. It was innocent at first, but it became much less so. In Westeros leaving my husband was not an option. I had no right to go from him unless he sent me away. And so I chose to leave.”

Lynesse’s hands were shaking, ever so slightly, “I used my education, courtesies, and social skills to leave a life I did not want, when in other circumstances I would have never had a choice. Surely the Breaker of Chains can understand that.”

Daenerys studied her. It was true that in Westeros husbands were responsible for their wives and household spending. Jorah had never claimed that his wife purchased things in secret, only that he did for her. And what she said was true: it was not for Jorah to think up punishments for poachers in the North. They were to be executed or sent to the Wall. If either had happened, Lynesse would have been free to remarry. But it was not the selling of men into slavery or fleeing from justice that upset Lynesse, she was sure. 

“What you have done has been done,” Dany said, while Lynesse sipped at her tea. “I cannot undo the past, nor can I stand in judgement between you and Ser Jorah. If you wish to remain with Ormollen then you may. It is not mine to stop you.”

She set down the tea. “It is not.”

“What is not?” Dany asked, confused at the turn in the conversation.

“It is not my wish to stay with Tregar.”

Thoroughly baffled, Dany picked up her own tea as an excuse to pause the conversation. “Then leave him. That is not my concern.”

“I cannot leave him,” Lynesse said, calm and steady, as though they were discussing the weather. “He treats me well, but if I leave him I have nowhere to go.”

“You can go wherever you please,” Dany pointed out, “there are many places throughout the city that will give you food in my name. You will not go hungry.”

“You must know that it is not an easy thing, to travel alone as a woman,” Lynesse replied.

Dany did. That did not mean that hundreds of thousands of slave women had not fled their masters house to the street. But, she knew, the fate of others did not lessen Lynesse’s own problems. “I… where do you wish to go?” 

“I do not know. I only wish not to be concubine to Tregar.”

“What can you do?” 

Lynesse considered the question. “I have an eye for fashion, and I can embroider beautifully. I can also make clothes, although I am out of practice.”

“There is a weaver here in the city. She is a freedwoman who came to me asking for coin to expand her business. I can speak to her on your behalf, so long as you return the favor.” Dany was still reeling, but she could think of the implications of this at a later time. For now, best to accomplish what she set out to do.

“You wish me to not act on behalf of the magisters. If you can promise protection from them, then I will do so gladly.”

This morning Dany could not have imagined wanting to speak with Varys, but here she was. “You have been speaking with Ser Jorah on behalf of the magisters.” She hoped it sounded like less of a question to Lynesse’s ears than it did to her own.

“They want their city back,” she agreed, “I can hardly blame them, but they are opposed to change.”

Daenerys was not a matchmaker. She was not suited to sort out a lover’s quarrel (indeed, the last one she had been a part of had killed her), but slavers scrabbling for power, that she could handle. “I will deal with your merchant and the magisters. And I will give you enough gold to begin your work.”

“You are very kind, Your Grace.”

It was true what she said, Dany noted, that in Westeros women were property no less than they were amongst the Dothraki. That was why Jon Snow had been considered a better king than Daenerys Targaryen, laws of the Faith, experience ruling, and the desires of the candidates aside. Lynesse had only seen her chains when her entire life was uprooted. What did that say about her peers?

Dany didn’t want to think of Westeros anymore. She had been traded for alliances before, and she had made the best of it. If the chance had come to be free of her chains, would she have taken it? If Ser Jorah had offered to take her away from Drogo, would she have stayed and been his  _ khaleesi  _ still? If she had been reborn to the world as Khal Drogo’s beloved wife, would she have been brave enough to stand against him? 

He had loved her, but he had never listened to her. She had not been able to convince him to attack Westeros. He had lain with her every night, uncaring of her own feelings about it. When she had saved Lamb Women from his riders, she had feared she had overstepped. And Daenerys knew that she would not have been able to save Viserys, even if she had tried.

She did not like the mirror that she was standing before. 

She liked it less that she felt sympathy now for Sansa Stark.

But Dany would not lie to herself. She would look the truth in the face and follow it where it may lead.


	36. Lys VII

Someone, probably Oberyn, had brought a map of the western half of the world to her war room.

Her advisors - including Lord Varys, not including Tyrion Lannister who still sat at the far end of the table - were gathered around it to discuss plans. Oberyn tapped Sunspear with one finger. “Sunspear is ten days by sea in favorable weather. Let us land there. We will crown you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and march north.”

In another lifetime Dany had been feeding a Meereenese nobleman to her dragons. From what she remembered of Jon’s telling, his sister was still in Winterfell and he was still alive. It would not do to invade too early and ruin what advantage her last life had given her. She had no wish to fight the Tyrell army and Stannis Baratheon to take the throne.

“Do we have word from Obara?” She asked.

“After the Company of the Cat and the Windblown turned on each other outside Volantis, both fractured and fled to parts unknown. Several others, including the Bright Banners and the Gallant Men, have agreed to fight under your banner. Others, such as the Company of the Rose have refused, but not allied with any Free City. Of late she has been treating with the Golden Company.”

“And you think they will fight for me?”

Oberyn shrugged. “The line of the Blackfyres has been broken. If there is no black dragon perhaps they will fight for a red one. And, if not, then they will die to dragonfire like any other men.”

Viserys had once feasted the captains of the Golden Company, but they ate his food and heard his pleas and laughed at him. They were made up of exiles and the sons of exiles, all of whom considered themselves Westerosi. But they had been founded by Bittersteel, bastard of Aegon the Unworthy, and for many years they had struggled to seat the Blackfyres on the throne.

“Perhaps they will,” Daenerys said. She leveled her jaw. “But I cannot go to Westeros.”

“My Queen?” Ser Barristan asked.

“We will sail through the Stepstones to Tyrosh.” Dany sat across the Sunset Sea, but the city was easy enough to find. It was north of Lys, thirteen days on pleasant seas.

“Without the merchant ships you returned to Volantis we have near six hundred warships,” Nymeria protested. “You have five thousand Unsullied; 34,000 freedmen soldiers, and 100,000 Dothraki calvary. You have taken two cities with less than a score of casualties.”

Dany did not have to cast about for army sizes. War had destroyed Westeros, but substantial armies still existed. After Jon retook Winterfell around 11,000 men had remained in the North. This included the forces that had refused to fight for either Bolton or Jon, and would mean taking young boys and old men from their homes. The Vale had been untouched, and could field 45,000 if pushed. 

Cersei could field the Westerlands, Reach, Crownlands, and Riverlands at this time. Or, perhaps better said, the Child King could. 105,000 men was a significant force. And while Asha had brought her 2,000 men, Euron had kept 15,000 along with his new crown. 

“Dorne has 30,000 spears awaiting your command,” Nymeria continued, unaware of Dany’s thoughts. “Your people await you and you wish to take Tyrosh?”

“I have seen it,” Dany replied, “We will not land in Westeros. It is not time.”

“Forgive me for being blunt,” Tyrion said, before the Dornish could protest, “but it seems rather odd to determine the time of our landing based on dreams.”

The only thing that prevented Dany from demanding to know why he never supported her plans was gripping the table so hard her knuckles turned white. While she was physically preventing herself from speaking, Oberyn did so for her. “Queen Daenerys’ have greatly aided my family, and have brought us to her side. You are in no position to question our queen.”

It would be amusing if not for the fear and fury bubbling up in her. If Tyrion’s goal was to sail to Westeros he would have been better served by keeping his mouth shut. The Dornish were loathe to agree with anything he said, and while Ser Barristan might take his side he would counsel her quietly. Even Varys said nothing in support of Tyrion. 

“I only want to aid the Queen. If Westeros is ripe for the taking and we fight Tyrosh out of fear of a dream, that does not serve her.” Tyrion’s voice was gentle, and it ripped something important in Dany to pieces and left it to bleed. 

“You want to aid your nephew, is more likely,” Nymeria said. “Why are you here, Imp? Who let you in?”

“Our queen.” 

Dany did not remember that. She remembered saying nothing when he sat at the far end of the table, but she still had not decided what to do with the ache in her chest, so she greatly preferred to avoid the subject of Tyrion Lannister. 

“Enough,” Ellaria spoke before the argument could continue. She set a hand on Oberyn’s arm and looked to Dany. “Perhaps you are right, and it is not time to land in Westeros. But I tire of travel and war. I want to see my daughters again. I ask your leave to return to Dorne, even if you do not.”

“You are not a prisoner here,” Daenerys told her. Ellaria was her heart. Many nights she had lain beside her and shivered from nightmares that were not only nightmares, and Ellaria had held her. If it were anyone else she would suspect them of making such a decision to sway her. It was not that she did not believe Ellaria so clever, but that truly thinking on it would break her heart into pieces she did not want to pick up. “You may go wherever you please. I will give you a ship and guards. But I cannot land in Westeros. Not yet.”

“If I might make a suggestion?” Varys asked.

All eyes turned to him. Dany’s hand tightened against Ellaria’s, and the woman looked back to her, concerned. “Speak, then,” she said.

“Your khalasar, some 90,000 men, await your pleasure in the Flatlands outside of Myr. If you will not go to Westeros, perhaps Myr is a better option than Tyrosh.” The Spider was calm as ever, hands hidden in his long robes. 

“A man once told me that it was a fool’s errand to continue north when the south is not secured,” Dany said. Jon Snow’s advice, at least, seemed wise.

“That is good advice,” Oberyn countered, “but you have Lys and Volantis and Mother Rhoyne. Tyrosh is surrounded. For aid they must sail for New Ghis or walk the Demon Road. Taking Myr will only strengthen your position against Tyrosh.”

In truth, Daenerys did not care for Tyrosh. It was only the next step northward. “Then we sail for Myr. Does anyone protest?”

No one did. Dany dismissed her counsel, the Dornish hurrying off one way and her bloodriders another. She was well used to being the last one to leave, but this day Tyrion waited with her until all save her knights and Grey Worm had left. She was certain that Grey Worm had more important things to do than linger at her side, but she had made him promise to never leave her alone with the dwarf or Spider. It seemed he was taking his vow quite seriously. Once everyone was gone Tyrion lifted his wine to his lips, “I fear that Prince Oberyn and his daughter would disagree with anything I chose to say.”

So he had noticed. He was more clever than she had remembered. Occasionally it bore reminding that it was not his intelligence in question, but his loyalties. “You said what you did because you knew what would happen.” She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice, and it did not work.

“It is not that I do not desire to know more about these dreams you have,” Tyrion responded, “but I said I wish to serve you, and serve you I have.”

“You did not need trickery to accomplish your aims.” Dany told him. “I am the Queen. If I say we sail for Myr or Tyrosh or even Braavos, sail we will.”

“But it is much easier when those around you support your decision.” He remarked.

What was she to say? Once she would have thought him clever. She could not just open her mouth and tell him she knew he would betray her to his sister. He would think her mad. Again. How to explain that whatever he told her to do in Westeros she would do the opposite in a heartbeat? It was not worth the trouble.

Her decision was made when he spoke into the silence she had created. “I know your family and mine have a history. My brother killed your father. My father killed your niece and nephew. But my mother was once companion to Queen Rhaella, and good friends with Princess Lorenza. You do not trust me. I cannot blame you. But I only want to help. If I can, I will.”

Silent, Daenerys stood from the table and left to seek her dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter! Had minor surgery on my arm.
> 
> Does anyone want me to write about the fashion choices and their deeper meanings? I think it'd make an interesting post on our Tumblr.


	37. Lys VIII

The day before the Targaryen armies were to sail from fair Lys, Daenerys accompanied Ellaria to the docks where  _ Meadowlark _ waited to set off to Dorne. 

Ellaria wore a gown of blue silk, soft and light, secured with a dark leather belt. She was not a traditionally beautiful woman, but in the light of the morning sun her hair looked like a halo around her face. Dany spoke with the captain while she and Oberyn said their goodbyes. The man was a former slave, and his ship had been purchased from the city with a loan from her new bank. It carried a shipment of silks that would pay for the loan and more besides.

When at last Ellaria came down to where Dany waited, and the captain excused himself. Her smile was small, but fond. In her last life, it had been reserved for Oberyn’s daughters. She clasped her hands in front of her, the gentle breeze making her skirts flutter around her skin. “I regret that I will not see your conquest, my Queen.”

“I will miss you,” Dany admitted, “I hope one day to meet your children. They sound wonderful.”

“You could join me?” Ellaria reminded her. Yet it was only a jest. Dany could no more board the ship than she could turn her back on boys who killed their puppies and women whose babies were ripped from their arms.

Dany embraced her tightly, and when she pulled back her eyes were bright. She kept a firm grip on Ellaria’s upper arms. “May the gods watch over you.”

“And you.” Ellaria lifted a hand to the side of Dany’s face. She leaned into the touch, maintaining her smile until Ellaria’s hand slipped from her skin, and she turned away.

She boarded the ship the captain waiting only for her now, her things and messages to Doran already secured aboard. Once she had gone, Oberyn approached, having left her and Ellaria to their farewell. Together they watched as the ship left the dock, and sailed away. It was not long after they were gone that Daenerys turned away. “I should see to the preparations.”

“I am due in court in an hour to hear petitions,” Oberyn did not turn his eyes from the sea. “You will still meet me in the training yard tonight?”

“Yes. Just before dinner.” Oberyn and Grey Worm had been pleased when she decided to compliment her swordfighting lessons with spear training. Privately, she thought that Grey Worm was the better warrior, as he was less prone to showing off, but Oberyn was the better trainer. He was harder on her, while Grey Worm remained nervous of hurting her.

Dany had a full day. She spent the morning finalizing preparations for travel. There were many logistical decisions needed, but it also raised the men’s morale to see her and Drogon making rounds through the camp. A letter from Missandei and Tyene had arrived, and Dany read Missandei’s words twice over before tucking the letter into her personal things. 

At sunhigh she ate with Lys’ new freedman counsel. They had been hand-chosen by Dany, and most had once handled their master’s household. Between them they knew how to run a household, a fleet, farms, and several other properties besides. Eventually they would be replaced by elected officials, but until the elections could be completed, someone competent was needed to rule.

Afterward she met Oberyn in the training yard. Most of her men had realized which days and what hours she usually trained, and either avoided training at that time, or came to watch. Dany didn’t mind the audience most days. In truth, she didn’t mind today either. Her men were welcome. The Westerosi on the balcony were not.

Perhaps Tyrion and Varys were plotting to prolong the power of the slavers or debating which man they wanted to rule Lys. No sooner had she thought it than she felt guilty. It was an unkind thought. She was judging them for things they had not yet done, and might never do. Dany could leave them in Lys, she supposed. But something told her that they would abandon the city and follow her when she landed in Westeros. After all, she was only queen so long as they could control her. That thought felt less unkind.

She was still thinking on this when Oberyn swept her off her feet with the blunt end of the spear. Dany scowled up at him. “That was not honorable.”

Oberyn laughed. “The high lords put too much emphasis on honor. If your opponent kills you dishonorably, he is dishonored and you are dead. And what worth is dishonor? Jaime Lannister is called Kingslayer, but his nephew sits the Iron Throne and he yet serves in the Kingsguard.”

“His son sits the Iron Throne,” Dany said. She sounded more annoyed than she was. Oberyn offered her a hand up, and stepped back as she renewed her grip on her spear.

“Again,” he said.

She took up her stance again. When he came at her she tried to stand her ground, but he was stronger than she, and Dany ended up on the ground again. Oberyn was grinning when he came to help her up.

“Look at me, Daenerys. I am taller and heavier than you. You cannot stand against me. Use your size to your advantage. This time, dodge my attack and make one of your own.”

She was half-winded. Jorah fought like he was terrified to hurt her, but Oberyn attacked her like she was a squire in training. Not meant to harm, but with force. This time she ducks and weaves around the staff he holds. Once his attack was avoided ,she looked for openings she could exploit. Nimbley, she lunged for his calves. He darted back the moment her intentions were realized, but she still managed to smack his ankle with the spear.

Had it been a viable weapon and not merely a wooden staff such an attack would have crippled her opponent. The Dornishman smirked down at her, pleased, his eyes alight with laughter. They separated, and came together again.

By the time the training was over Dany was sitting on the floor with her spear. Oberyn was a fine fighter, but much of his teaching was on how to do things that wouldn’t be expected in a fight. She supposed that she might need to tell him, eventually, that she did not expect these skills to be used against skilled swordsmen. A wight might hold a weapon, but it could only use it in the most basic of forms. 

Dany was exhausted, but mollified, somewhat, by Oberyn’s fatigue. She was getting better at fighting. Oberyn returned from giving the spears over to the Unsullied. “Can I escort you to your rooms, Your Grace?”

“Thank you, Oberyn, but I mean to visit my children.”

“Would you mind company?”

Her dragons like him almost as much as they like Jorah. When they approach them, Drogon rumbled happily as Dany pets his soft nose, and Rhaegal checked Oberyn for sheep with sharp pokes of his nose. When none are forthcoming they huff and lay down, while Viserion trilled and demanded attention from the both of them. 

Once Rhaegal and Viserion might have been away, hunting or playing, but now Rhaegal prefered to remain close to camp. Without the support of her siblings, Viserion tended to remain nearby as well. Dany was glad. She had feared the smaller two would remain wild. Now she only had to worry about Viserion eating what she should not, rather than fearing that they would not come back one day.

Oberyn settled near the cart that had brought their morning meal, Rhaegal lounging nearby and permitting him to rub along the green’s striped neck. Dany waded into the burnt patch of earth to see what they had been eating. In this life, she had taught them that eating humans was taboo, and seen to it that they had more than they could eat. In Ly it meant a lot of fishing. Still, it was better water monsters than corpses.

“Did they kill anything interesting?” Oberyn asked.

“Only more strange sea creatures.” There was also a cow with the soft insides eaten and the meat left. That would be Drogon’s work. Her son was spoiled by the richness of Lys’ sea. He would catch what he pleased and eat the best parts, leaving the rest for his siblings. Rhaegal had grown lazy in hunting, but they were well-fed on Drogon’s scraps. 

“Drogon seems to like sea monsters.”

“Drogon likes anything he can get his claws on,” she rubbed her son’s neck ridge, fingers catching along his spines. “He’s a pig, this one.”

Oberyn eyed the burnt earth. “Do they always burn their food?”

Dany could not help the smile. “I trained them to burn their own food. When they were infants it had to be cooked for them.”

“How small were they?” 

The Red Waste crossed her mind, the babies they had been clinging to her broken leather tunic. Rhaegal lifted his head over Drogon’s to press their nose into her, until she pet him too. She said. “Let me tell you how I thought them to fly.”

~oOo~

Late that night, in a dress that was more Meereenese than Lysene, Dany went to a certain terrace overlooking the garden where the dragons kept their gore piles. It was the best place in the city to see her children, and it had become a popular attraction with the freedmen. This late, no one save the manse’s occupants had access to it.

As she came along the path, Dany hesitated. Westerosi had taken up residence at the table closest to the edge. Nymeria wore a gown of fine Myrish silk, so thin that Dany would have been able to see the shape of her body in the sunlight. It had a vee so deep that it nearly touched her belly. Tyrion had come to her in the clothes of a moderately wealthy Essosi man, a dark brown jerkin over a pale tunic. He had abandoned the gold of a Lannister for the red and black of the Targaryens, but unlike most of her retinue he had not yet taken to Dothraki blue.

It was too late to turn back. Nymeria had already seen her. The woman was seated on the ledge which overlooked the garden, a glass of wine in one hand the the other gripping the stone. As Dany neared, Tyrion straightened in his seat. He set his wine glass down and tugged lightly at his jerkin to remove any wrinkles. 

“Your Grace,” Nymeria lifted her glass in a half-salute. “What brings you to the garden?”

“My children.” Dany padded down the walkway, keeping a distance between herself and the waist-high barrier. The chair across from Tyrion was empty, but she kept to the opposite side of Nymeria. Below them, Viserion was picking over her scales while Rhaegal, half on top of her, ate the latest strange corpse Drogon had brought from the sea. 

“They’re beautiful beasts,” Tyrion said, “That white, his crests look like gold.”

Dany bristled. “Viserion is female.”

“Her crests, then.”

“And they aren’t beasts. Not to me. They are my children.”

Tyrion moved as if to speak, and then closed his mouth. He took the wine from the table and took a drink. A small one. Every time Daenerys caught him drinking himself into a stupor she took the wine from him. Once he was done drinking, he sat in silence for a moment. “When I first came to Kings Landing I was a boy of eleven. It was the first time I had left the Rock. All of my family was expected to attend my sister’s wedding.”

He glanced over at her, gauging her reaction. Dany did not so much shift her eyes, but Nymeria looked away from the dragons to listen. “Before, dragons skulls had hung on the walls of the throne room, but they had been replaced. It was only because I was sister to the queen that I finally found them. I had known they wouldn’t be destroyed, they were too valuable.

“I thought I would find them impressive. Perhaps frightening. But they were so beautiful, even when they were only black bones, smooth as polished onyx. Their teeth were long, curving knives that would put your black’s own to shame. It felt like they were watching me as I walked among them.”

Dany caught herself looking at him. For the first time since his first sighting of the dragons, his attention had strayed from her. He was looking down at his glass, eyes distant, the fire flickering gold across his hair. “The newest were two tiny little things, no bigger than a mastiff’s skull and different from all the rest in shape. They were the last dragons known anywhere before yours. Last of all were those all the tales tell of: Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhaghar. You could have ridden a horse down Vhaghar's gullet, and Meraxes was even larger.

“And the greatest of them, Balerion, the Black Dread, could have swallowed an aurochs whole, or even one of those hairy mammoths said to roam the cold wastes beyond the Port of Ibben. His skull was so great that it was difficult for me to imagine the size of the living creature. I returned there when I was grown, and it was still stunning.” He roused from his state, looking to his glass and drinking from it. “I am not very large, I admit. Perhaps they would seem less impressive to a full-sized man.”

“Are they?” He looked up, his mismatched eyes meeting Dany’s own. When he simply stared at her, she prompted. “Less impressive?”

Tyrion shifted in his chair to look at the garden. In the dim light, Viserion’s flames flickered over her skulls, casting light up onto her white scales and Rhaegal’s green ones. You could not see the younger’s face, but their silhouette jerked as they ripped meat from bone. 

“No.” He said. “They’re not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I don't have enough character moments to go with my plot sometimes. I also just want to take a break and write about meta, and it's not gonna work out.
> 
> I love you guys for all the comments! Thank you so much! And whoever shared this in a group, thank you for sending people to the fic!
> 
> Edit: Y'all can join us on Tumblr at daenerysstrangersagain!


	38. The Stepstones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legend said that the Stepstones were all that remained of the Arm of Dorne, a land bridge which the First Men crossed into Westeros some ten thousand years ago. For centuries the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities fought for control over these islands, and today pirates still made their dens upon the Stepstones and ventured forth to prey on honest men.

Legend said that the Stepstones were all that remained of the Arm of Dorne, a land bridge which the First Men crossed into Westeros some ten thousand years ago. For centuries the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities fought for control over these islands, and today pirates still made their dens upon the Stepstones and ventured forth to prey on honest men. Worse yet, autumn was a season rife with storms.

They were caught in one now, had been for many hours now. Daenerys had taken the largest Volantene dromon for her own, as it was one of the few ships Drogon could land on. She had gone under the deck long ago, while men scrambled to secure the ship. It was long into the night when the lookout spotted something else. Something more immediately threatening than the storm. A pirate ship appeared from the thick rain and rolling waves. Others followed behind it. Had they know the size of the fleet they approached they might not have dared come near, but in the storm visibility was greatly reduced.

Dany woke to the sound of swords and shouting. Beside her, Irri sat bolt upright, clutching the sheets. As Dany’s feet touched the cold floor, Qezza scuffled toward the front of the bed on hands and knees, clinging to Irri. As they cowered, Dany snatched her sword from next to the bed and rushed to her doorway. When she flung it open there were only her knights and the dead in the corridor. Ser Barristan freed his sword from one of the men on the ground. “Your Grace, you must hide. Pirates have attacked the ship.”

Standing before them clad in a pale chemise, hair loose and wild around her face, holding naked steel in her hands, Dany must not look like a warrior. She lowered the blade, eyes wide as she took in the scene before her. “Where is Drogon?” 

“He would have taken flight when the attack began,” Jorah reached for her arm, but she knew he meant to herd her into her chambers for her own safety. 

Dany pushed past him, ignored Ser Barristan’s shout, and rushed to the door which led to the desk. When she threw it open rain pelted her skin and the wind tore at her face, but against the carnage on the deck it was nothing. Drogon had been woken from his sleep by pirates boarding the ship. They attacked fiercely, thinking him only cargo in his sleep, and her son had torn them into fleshy pieces and lit their ship aflame. 

One of the pirates looked to her and saw a frightened maiden. He made to charge at her, sword held high, and although Dany was ready to counter the attack she never got the chance. Ser Jorah swept her aside while Ser Barristan met the man head-on. While the knights fought she found her son on the deck, a spear buried in one of his shoulders. He held a man in his jaws, and with a snap of his neck he threw him into the sea.

Fear forgotten, Dany darted across the ship toward him. As she neared him her sight was obstructed by a heavy-set Tyroshi pirate. He lazily swung at her. Dany blocked the blade, and as they drew apart Drogon’s tail swept forward and dropped the man to the floor. Dany buried her sword in his back to insure that he would not get back up to endanger her crew. Then she ran for her son. 

All else was forgotten as she took in the spear wound. Grabbing it with both hands, she wrenched it from his shoulder. Drogon let out a great cry when it came loose, but remained still. It was not deep, and no blood came from it. In the downpour his scales were slick, but she climbed them anyway. There was no time for a saddle. Once she was settled between his shoulders he leapt into the air. In his wake, the ship rocked violently, sending sailors sprawling, but it held firm.

Drogon beat his wings fiercely to gain height. Below her she could see the ship of the Tyroshi pirates burn, and her men rallied to kill off the last of the invaders. Jorah and Ser Barristan stared up at her as she flew upward, growing smaller with every pump of Drogon’s wings. 

Daenerys had flown in storms before. The blizzard the night the Army of the Dead attacked was notable. Instead of flying up, searching for a winged opponent, they headed into the pirate fleet. There were five to ten of them; it was impossible to tell even from above. In addition to her ship four others had been targeted, and six were involved in the battle. She thought one might have been the ship Viserion had taken to, but she could not be certain. While her ears strained for any sign of dragonsong above the storm, she could hear nothing.

The men that attacked her ship had realized their mistake, if too late to turn back. Many of their fellows would not be so lucky. His mother perched on his back, Drogon swung wide over the ships and opened fire. In an instant the deck caught flame. The fire raced across the hull and up the mast, and sailors jumped into the sea rather than burn alive. Others did not have the chance. 

Together they banked left, finding another pirate ship headed straight for a little Yunkai’i galley. Drogon screamed fire, and wood shrieked as it exploded from the heat. As the sailors watched their opponent sink into the sea, they turned to another, raining down arrows as it approached them. From the gloom more ships appeared, but these were Volantene and Lyseni, bearing Targaryen colors.

Caught up in freeing one of the Lysene ships from the pirates surrounding her, Dany did not notice the ballista immediately. It had the chance to shoot a javelin toward them before she realized what was happening. As before, Drogon dodged it, but it was a narrow miss. As they scrambled to regain balance and find a good angle to face the newest threat a group of archers aboard the ship they had been attacking took their chance. 

Dany did not notice the men until it was too late. A hail of arrows rained over them. Most broke on Drogon’s hide, no more harmful to him than the rain. One zipped past Dany’s head, and another went through her right leg as Drogon floundered in the air. She screamed, and Drogon shrieked a moment later. Her son turned his head to the Tyroshi ship and breathed fire over the archers of his own accord. 

They burned, and Dany leaned down to look at her leg. It hurt fiercely, and she thought the bone must be broken. Her calf bled freely, soaking into her chemise. She had thought the arrow would still be lodged inside the meat of her leg, because it felt like someone had stabbed her with a red-hot piece of metal and left it in the wound, but it was gone. While she had never thought to be grateful for Mirri Maz Durr, the woman had provided her with two important pieces of information: if something important was severed it would be mere minutes before death, and if not then bleeding would help the wound to prevent infection. Dany closed her eyes, silently thanking her for this lesson. 

Twisting about, Dany sought out her ship through the pelting rain. It wouldn’t do to crush the hull of a smaller ship trying to land on it, and there was a healer aboard with her. Through the storm she could make out the burning hulk of the pirate ship Drogon had blasted with fire. She turned her attention back to the battle at hand, meaning to finish the ship with the ballista before leaving, least it turn on her children.

She found it just in time to meet the eyes of the man about to launch a second javelin at Drogon’s chest. Dany’s heart stopped. A wave of nausea took her. Drogon’s wings beat fiercely in her ears. In this close range, she knew he would not be able to dodge in time. It was like seeing her children die all over again. Drogon rose, but too slowly. Dany was caught watching their death unfold.

And then the ballista and its handler and the bow of the ship it rested on exploded into flames. Stunned, Dany followed the burst of orange-and-yellow dragonfire to its source and found Rhaegal above the ship. Her child’s green body was turned black by the dark and the rain, but in the light of their fire she could see the shine of their molten bronze eyes. The dragonfire ended, and Rhaegal turned to aim flames at the main deck with beautiful precision. 

As their neck was turned away from her Daenerys caught sight of something unusual. There was a dark shadow on their back, silhouette visible only in the cast of the flames. It brought back a piercing memory of the Night King astride Viserion, but she shook it from her head. Then her vision cleared in the light of the burning ship. On Rhaegal’s back a figure was clad in supple leather, clinging to the bronze spinal crest on the dragon. They half-stood on Rhaegal’s back, turning to seek Dany. When the Red Viper’s eyes met her own she could only stare. 

For a heartbeat they gazed at each other as if the stars would fall from the sky and the Earth would split into pieces if they looked away. Beneath them the ship Rhaegal had burned gave an agonized moan, as if it was a large animal crying from a mortal wound. Daenerys jolted out of her shock. The searing pain of her leg came back to her, and through Drogon’s ears she heard Oberyn shouting for her to turn back.

She wheeled her son above the carnage, seeking height from the water and distance from threats. A bulkhead broke, sounding like an explosion under the water, and Dany looked down to see men screaming as their ship sank. It took her several confused wingbeats to realize that they made no sound to her ears, only to Drogon’s. Shivering, she guided Drogon to wing back to the dromon and the relative safety of her deck. 

When Drogon landed on the ship Dany was clinging to him only through force of will, and her son’s efforts to not unseat his mother. She was lightheaded, in pain, and seeing everything as if she was only an observer and not a participant inside her own body. Dimly, she was aware that Ser Jorah had charged up to a wailing Drogon and climbed his wing to reach her. He had to pry her fingers off of the dragon’s spines. Her son beat his wings, but in protest, not an attempt to fly.

Someone was shouting for a maester in the distance. Jorah wrapped her in his cloak and lifted her from Drogon’s scales. Against her, his body was warm. Darkness filtered in at the edges of her vision. “Stay with me, Dany, stay with me,” Ser Jorah said, voice forcibly calm, “that’s it now, keep your eyes open.”

The last thing that Dany was aware of before the darkness took her was the voice of Tyrion Lannister, clearer than even Jorah’s words next to her ear. 

_ You can’t! The most important person in the world can’t fly off to the most dangerous place in the world. If you die we’re all lost. Everyone! Everything! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a bunch of related posts of Tumblr scheduled for every two hours or so, so pop in there if you want some visual references.


	39. The Stepstones II

Because they expected a blockade in Myr’s harbor, the Targaryen fleet put in at an island in the Stepstones to find game, grain, and fresh water. Several of the ships were mildly damaged from the storm and the attack, and could assess their condition better while stopped. There was also concern that Dany might have mounted Drogon and flown to Oberyn’s ship with her leg newly bandaged if they did not. 

The Dothraki healer had applied honey and cerate-wax mixed with oil, lard, and other substances Dany didn’t recognize, to her wound. She insisted it would stop the blood and help the flesh heal, as well as preventing any infection. It reminded Dany too much of the firepod and sting-me-not poultice that Mirri Maz Duur had given Drogo, but this was a woman from her own  _ khalasar _ , and so she allowed it, biting down the fear in her throat.

Ser Barristan had attempted to bring Oberyn to Dany’s dromon, aptly renamed  _ Silver Queen _ , but that plan was ruined by stormy seas. Nor could Rhaegal land on the deck, as Drogon, worried and wounded, had refused to move until Dany had been brought up on deck by Jorah to soothe her children. He had recovered with the passing of the storms. Now all three shared Viserion’s catch on the pale sands of the beach.

Oberyn accompanied Mossador to Dany’s room, where Jorah had laid her on the bed and Irri and Qezza had wrapped her in blankets and struggled to stop her bleeding. The ship had pitched through the storms, but the heat that came with calm affected Dany more. She had been born during a storm, she did not fear them. 

“How is your leg?” He asked, as Irri fussed over her, anxious.

“The healer says that it will take six weeks to look better, and eight to fully heal. After two or three, I will not need much for the pain.” Dany told him, brushing aside his concern. “You rode Rhaegal.”

Her paramour shrugged, a grin stealing across his face. “I fed them a sheep every day, and was kind to them. They trusted me. When the ship was attacked Rhaegal burned it and our ship besides. I saw that their fire was wild without a rider to instruct them, and climbed on their back to prevent them from burning both the pirates and us. The rest…”

“Nobody knows how to ride a dragon until they ride a dragon,” Dany said, softly. Something settled deep in her stomach. It felt like fear. She decided it was only uncertainty. “It is good that Rhaegal has taken a rider. They will be safer in battle with a second pair of eyes.”

It was true. She feared taking her smaller children into battle because they did not have the ability to dodge bolts that Dany and Drogon did. Every time she thought of it she remembered Viserion’s wail as the Night King felled her. Rhaegal’s body warping as a bolt crushed their jaw. She shuddered violently, and Oberyn reached out to set a hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, and his voice cautious.

“You don’t seem pleased.”

“The dragons are my children.” Her voice sounded small and afraid, and she struggled to correct it. “They are the only children I will ever have. I carried them in my arms and fed them at my breasts.”

Oberyn’s hand slid up her neck to cup the side of her face. “I will care for them as if they were my own children. No harm will come to Rhaegal that has not first come to me.”

She leaned into the touch, aware of the tears coursing down her face and unable to stop them. Dany was the blood of the dragon, and the dragon did not cry. Rhaegal’s death scream sounded in her head, reverberated against her skull, and more tears fell. “If you were ever to decide that I was not the queen you wanted me to be… Dragon would fight dragon in the skies. Only one could survive it. Or neither.”

In her head, she could  _ hear _ Viserion’s scales and flesh tearing apart as Drogon fought him. As the living dead her beloved daughter had become struggled to breathe blue fire over them. She did not know if she could do it again, not if the child she fought was not undead, but fighting her because of their rider’s politics. What mother could kill her own children because they did not obey her?

“You are my queen,” Oberyn promised her, searching her face, “now and always.”

A sob ripped itself out of her chest, leaving her heart flayed in its wake. She pulled from Oberyn’s touch. She was being unfair, she knew, but she imagined she could feel the place where a dagger had sunk into her chest every time she breathed. The bed shifted as a body knelt on it, shuffling across to reach Dany’s side. Hands grasped at her shoulders, pulling her into the warm and firm chest of another person. “No, no, don’t touch me.” She insisted through her tears.

“It’s me,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Irri said, pulling at her shaking form, “ _ it’s only me.” _

And it was. Irri smelled like clean horses and old leather, and faintly of Lysene perfume with a touch of honeysuckle. Dany let her envelop her in her arms. She leaned against her shoulder and wept as a queen should not. 

~oOo~

“You must become king before the Long Night begins. Only you can lead the living against the dead. All your life has led us to this moment. This decision.”

“She’s my daughter. Get out.”

Melisandre left the tent a moment later. She was as Kinvara remembered her, with hair of burnished copper and head and shoulders taller than Kinvara. When she encountered the uncertain knights and elder priestess outside of Stannis Baratheon’s war tent she paused mid-stride.

“Valar morghulis.” Kinvara said, smiling faintly.

“Valar dohaeris,” Melisandre returned, “ _ High Priestess Kinvara. What brings you to the cold of Westeros? _ ”

“ _ The Lord has shown me the way. _ ” Kinvara told her. “ _ You were correct those many years ago when you said that Dragonstone had been the birthplace of Azor Ahai. _ ”

_ “I saw it in the fires, _ ” Melisandre agreed, pride in her voice and the tilt of her head, “ _ I came to Dragonstone and there I found Stannis Baratheon. He is Azor Ahai, the warrior of fire. In him the prophecies are fulfilled.” _

“ _ The Lord has shown me another. _ ” Kinvara folded her hands in front of her.  _ “Daenerys Targaryen is the one who was promised. She was born on Dragonstone during a great storm, and from the fire she was reborn to remake the world. _ ”

The red priestesses stared at each other for a moment. It was not uncommon for two to disagree, but the visions were always the same. Interpretations made the difference, between one and another. It was impossible for one to have seen Stannis defeat the White Walkers and the other to have seen Daenerys Targaryen.

Melisandre held a place of honor among the camp. Her tent was next to the king’s own, warm from the fire which blazed in a brazier in the center. Fine furs covered the bed and a banner with R’hllor’s fire and a stag in the center hung on the wall. This was where she took Kinvara so they might speak.

Without words, they took up places on either side of the flames. When two priestesses had a disagreement they sought the Lord’s aid in the fires. As the elder priestess, Kinvara spoke first. “ _ Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path. R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night. _ ”

“ _ Lord of Light, show us the way. The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord of Light, guide us. _ ” Melisandre echoed.

For a time they stood, looking into the fire. Shapes formed before Kinvara’s eyes, fire dragons and ice demons, the Wall and Winterfell, Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon, and the Dragon Queen. Heros fell and died and rose again.

“ _ I see a great battle in the snow, _ ” Melisandre spoke first, “I _ see myself walking along the battlements of Winterfell. I see the flayed man banners lowered to the ground. _ ”

“ _ As do I, _ ” Kinvara’s eyes never moved from the fire. “ _ But I see something else as well. Stannis’ fate hangs in the balance.”  _

“ _ If he does not take us there, who will? _ ”

“ _ I see skulls, a thousand skulls, and a stag burning in the flames. _ ” Kinvara shook with the power of the vision. Before Daenerys Stormborn had been born again into the world in flames on the Dothraki Sea the Lord had shown her only what would be. If she saw a man die he would die, there was no preventing it. But when R’hllor’s bride walked again in this world it had become much otherwise. Kinvara had seen what was, and then what would be. Except for the queen’s words she had no way to tell which belonged to this life, and which to the last. 

“ _ The skulls are those of the Bolton men. Stannis will destroy them in battle,” _ Melisandre told her.

Kinvara said nothing for a time, looking deeper into the fire before her. Reading the fires was an art, and like all arts it demanded mastery, discipline, study. R'hllor spoke to his chosen ones through blessed fire, in a language of ash and cinder and twisting flame that only a god could truly grasp. Melisandre had practiced her art for years beyond count, and there was no one who had her skill at seeing the secrets half-revealed and half-concealed within the sacred flames.

But there was seeing and there was knowing.

“ _ Daenerys Stormborn has been born twice from a pyre of salt and smoke. Once in this life, and once in her last. The Lord has need of her. Her dragons are fire made flesh, a gift from the Lord of Light. Has Lord Stannis woken dragons from stone? _ ”

“ _ He is stubborn. He has seen his victory in the fires, but he clings to this life still. It is his daughter he must give up. I stopped the greyscale from taking her life, but it covers her face _ .” Over the fire the priestess’ gaze was enraptured. “ _ When the girl with the stone face is sacrificed, it will wake the dragon in the king. _ ”

“ _ Daenerys has already sacrificed a child of the blood. One to wake her dragons, another to live again. _ ”

“ _ Dragons must have riders, _ ” Melisandre mused, “ _ the Targaryen girl is part of the Lord’s plan. He must have her dragons. But Stannis is of the blood as well as she. He can claim a dragon. _ ”

Kinvara looked into the fires, seeking the face of Queen Daenerys.

And she saw only Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of these POV shifts are at the same time, we’ll eventually get into some where Dany’s are weeks apart while Kinvara’s are days or hours.


	40. Myr

Free time was little and less during wartime, but Dany had more of it than usual aboard her ship and nursing a wounded leg.

For days upon days she had studied the lore that she had taken from behind Volantis’ black walls. Much existed about the nobility of Valyria and their power, of spells the Valyrians used that no longer worked (and that some doubted ever had), and here and there were hints of history long thought lost to most of the world.

But what Daenerys sought was harder to come by. She had read about the greatness of the Freehold a hundred and a half times before she found the first hint of it. There was something wrong with the histories. It was rooted in Doreah’s tale of the Great Empire of the Dawn and dragonglass and the black stone of the Valyrians. Just outside of Dany’s reach it waited, and while her fingers could brush the surface she could not truly grasp it.

She had learned little about the Great Empire of the Dawn. All sources said it was one of the greatest and most powerful empires in all of history, greater even than the Valyrian’s at the peak of their power. The histories also named their rulers. First the God-on-Earth, and then his descendants: the Pearl Emperor, the Jade Emperor, the Tourmaline Emperor, the Onyx Emperor, the Topaz Emperor, the Opal Emperor, the Amethyst Empress, and the Bloodstone Emperor.

It reminded her of her vision in the House of the Undying. Of ghosts who lined the hallway, dressed in the faded raiment of kings. In their hands were swords of pale fire. They had hair of silver and hair of gold and hair of platinum white, and their eyes were opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade. 

The books she had collected said that it was the murder of the Amethyst Empress by her own brother that had brought about the Long Night. In the heavens, the gods had become angry, and one god had turned her back on the world. The other punished the wickedness of man by causing the Long Night. In the records this god, the Lion-of-Night, was both the ancestor of the emperors and an enemy, for the Five Forts were built by the Pearl Emperor, his grandson, to keep him away. The Long Night was ended when a great warrior rose to lead a battle against the darkness with Lightbringer in his hand.

Lightbringer. Dany knew of the sword in other legends, those from Asshai. The Asshai’i said that a man they named Azor Ahai had forged a hero’s sword to cast back the Long Night. His first sword was tempered by water and broke. The second he drove through a lion’s heart, but it too shattered. Last he had gone to his wife, and driven the blade through her heart. Her soul had combined with the sword, creating Lightbringer, and her cry left a crack across the face of the moon.

Dany had heard another story about the moon as well. The Qartheen believed that the dragons were hatched from a second moon that came too close to the son and cracked. 

So she had two tales. One of a brother killing his sister for the throne, and another of a husband killing his wife for a sword. Targaryens were no stranger to wedding brother to sister. Could it be that these tales were of the same event? But one announced the beginning of the Long Night, and another happened during it. Or did it? The histories were barely there, and sometimes Dany felt as though she was grasping at nothing. 

Something else interested her. If the Great Empire of the Dawn stretched from the Bone Mountains to the Grey Waste, then that meant Asshai had been within the empire. And no one, not even the Asshai’i, knew who had built their city. They said it had stood since the beginning of the world and would stand until the end. However, Asshai was made of greasy black stone.

As were other things. Yeen in Sothoryos, a ruin older than time which repelled even the jungle. A statue of a toad in the Basilisk Isles, north of Yeen. And, importantly, the Bloodstone Emperor was said to have worshiped an oily black stone which fell from the sky. But there was another type of this stone. The fused black stone of dragonstone, which the Valyrians melted with dragonflame and shaped to make Dragonstone, the Black Walls of Valyria, the base of the Hightower, and the Five Forts the Pearl Emperor had built..

If the oily black stone was associated with the Bloodstone Emperor and his evil, then the fused black stone belonged to the dragonlords. Had the Pearl Emperor been a dragonlord? He must have been, for how else would he make the Five Forts? 

And somewhere here was the answer to a question Dany did not know yet.

Those who lived in Asshai claimed that dragons had originated in the Shadow. Indeed, Jorah believed it as well. If this was true, and Asshai was a city within the Great Empire of the Dawn, then the emperors had been dragonlords. They had caused the Long Night through evil magic, and their empire had fallen apart during it, emerging into the summer as only a fragment of what had been. After this, one of them had taken the secrets of dragons to the shepherds of the Valyrian peninsula. 

What did all of this have to do with the White Walkers? Everywhere in the world there were legends of a hero, a great warrior who fought the darkness and brought the dawn. He was called Azor Ahai by the Asshai’i, Yin Tar by the Yi Ti, the Last Hero in Westeros, and other names beside. All agreed that this warrior had brought an end to the darkness. But how did one fight darkness? 

It made Dany’s head spin.

Long after nightfall she set her books aside. She did not know where Oberyn was, but Qezza had fallen asleep on her bed while reading a book about Old Ghis. Most nights Irri would be here as well, and where she was Dany did not know either.

She snuffed out the light and crawled into the sheets. Dany was tired from a long day of ruling and preparations within the city, but for many hours she lay in her bed within the depths of her ship, thinking about the White Walkers and the Long Night. Trying to remember everything the Westerosi had ever told her about them.

That night, her answers would remain elusive.

~oOo~

Nine days after the battle in the Stepstones the Targaryen fleet reached Myr’s harbor on the eastern shore of the Sea of Myrth.

While Myr was known to be founded by Valyrian merchant adventurers who had captured the existing, walled Andal town, many of the people of Myr had olive skin and dark hair. Some thought them to be descended from the Rhoynar, due to their shared features. Like the other Free Cities, they spoke their own dialect of Valyrian, so different from the others that it might have been a different language. 

Inside her walls, Myr was ruled by a conclave of magisters, chosen from the most wealthy and noble men in the city. Slaves outnumbered freemen three to one. Many men considered Myr to be the most advanced of the Free Cities. She was famed for her arts and leaning, and had fine exports including glass and lace.

Lys had her bedslaves and fleet, Tyrosh had her trade and army, and Myr had her craftsmanship and dragonroad. As the only one of the Triarchy to be located on the mainland, Myr was used to giving lavishly to passing  _ khalasars _ . Behind her great white walls her people despised warring, preferring to send sellswords to do their work. 

They put down anchor away from the city, and Daenerys and a number of guards set out for the greatest of the  _ khalasar _ camps, the one camped before the great white gates of Myr. Her leg still ached when jolted too sharply, but she had dismissed her advisor’s concerns. A Dothraki would ride if their leg had been cut off, and a  _ khal _ who could not ride was not a  _ khal. _ When Drogo had shown weakness and fallen from his horse, his  _ khalasar _ had fragmented. Dany would show them her strength.

While the dragons harassed the herds, Dany and her companions were seen to the center of the camp, where tents had been arranged for them to refresh themselves after the long journey. Daenerys hardly had time to slide off her boots before they were interrupted by a handmaid at the door. She looked up at the sound of the tent flap rustling, but Qezza abandoned her work to exit the tent and speak with her.

Underneath her boots, the linen bandage remained tightly in place. Every night the Dothraki healer came to her, to renew the ointment and change the bandages. The woman had mourned the lack of turmeric aboard the ship, but insisted that once she found some in the markets of Myr she would make use of it. Dany was just glad that the wound had stopped seeping through them early in the process. 

Qezza returned several minutes after she had left and came to where Dany sat on the bed of furs. “ _ Daenerys, the girl outside says that your presence has been requested. Myr has sent a rider to bid for parley.” _

It was not as if it was easy to miss three dragons coming from the water and flying around half of your city, but Dany was still surprised. “ _ Now? Are you sure?” _

The Meereenese girl’s Dothraki was impressive, for she had studied it over long hours with Irri and Jhiqui, but she took no offense to the question.  _ “A man exits the city carried by a fine white horse.” _

_ “I cannot go like this. I need fresh riding leathers and a gown.” _ She had not even had time to clean the dust from her face.

Irri was throwing a pair of trousers onto the bed beside her only a moment later. “ _ Let me help, Khaleesi. _ ”

As they worked, Dany cleaning up with a rag and Irri helping with her clothes, Qezza went to the trunk where Dany’s gowns were packed. She no longer wore white. It made her look too distanced from her people. Now she preferred the black of the Targaryens and the blue of Drogo’s  _ khalasar _ . Red reminded her too much of Lannisters and Kings Landing. The gown Qezza chose had been made in Lys, a beautiful black gown with cape-like sleeves and a vee neckline closed with a strap. Its shoulders had the texture of dragonscales and looked armor-like from a distance.

When she was dressed they replaced her boots, and Irri helped her outside. The Unsullied had constructed part of her pavillion even in the short time they had, which Dany found quite impressive. It was only a raised dais and a wooden bench, but it would suit. She summoned Drogon down to make it look more imposing. Not many could look at a Targaryen queen seated before the black dragon and not find it intimidating. 

Her counsel gathered with the same haste she had. Oberyn still in dusty riding leathers and Ser Barristan’s helm missing. Varys had seated himself to her right, in the place usually occupied by Oberyn and Nymeria, and the Dornishwoman was forced to settle for sitting next to Tyrion. They had shrunk on their journeys, she muse as they waited. Her knights and Unsullied remained, and although Aggo was missing, Jhogo and Rakharo had summoned a number of  _ khals _ . Daario had joined Lucerys in sitting in the back. Uncaring of their guests, Irri folded herself down at Dany’s feet, ready to aid her if she should need it. 

Something about it made the memory of Jhiqui being too afraid to translate Viserys’ words for Drogo cross her mind. By the time she had returned her attention to the issue at hand the envoys had all but arrived. Arero Paenelar was the man on the white horse. Behind him some fifty men, armed and armored, followed on foot. The man was fat and merry, and had a wide smile. 

It was Jorah who spoke the dialect of Myr best, and he who introduced her to the nobleman once he had stepped from his horse.  _ “All hail Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt. Empress of Valyria, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, and Great Khal of the Dothraki. Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons _ .”

“ _ I am honored to be in the presence of Her Grace.”  _ He bowed low and long. _ ”I am Arero Paenelar of Myr.” _

_ “And I am honored I am to host you, _ ” Dany assured him,  _ “Please, sit. What message does Myr send?” _

_ “Great and glorious is Myr, the greatest of cities. Our walls are one of the wonders of the world, our nobles are proud and fierce, our merchants rich and magnanimous, our harbor one of the greatest in the Known World. _ ” He took the seat he had been offered.  _ “All of this we offer as a gift for our Dragon Queen.” _

There was a pause. The noble folded his hands before him and waited with a pleased smile. The knights looked at each other. Tyrion leaned toward Varys to whisper a query. When he sat up Nymeria pinned him with a look, and he shrugged in response. Dany kept her gaze on the man before her.

_ “A gift? _ ” She asked, hands folded in her lap. “ _ You would gift me your city and all within?” _

He made a great, sweeping motion to the black dragon behind her, who was flexing his wings after the day’s long flight.  _ “It was the dragons we bowed to, and now the dragons have returned to this world. They are a sign from the gods, although which gods we may not know. One thing is agreed upon. From the Bone Mountains to the Narrow Sea, all belonged to the dragonlords of Valyria, and now you are the last of them.” _

Daenerys had been a politician in two lifetimes. She understood the words he did not say. Were she to lose her dragons, or were they to lose her, Myr would no longer consider her their rightful ruler. Indeed, they would be likely to fund a rebellion. But until that day, they had no wish to burn. Giving their city over to a dragonlord was preferable to burning in dragonfire and dying to a slave rebellion.

“ _ Very well then,” _ Daenerys noted Oberyn out of the corner of her eye. He was watching the exchange with a smirk. She had to agree with him. Her strategy of attacking each city swiftly, before they could rally a proper response, had paid off. Now those who were left were quickly finding themselves with fewer and fewer resources.  _ “I accept this generous gift. Do you have any terms?” _

_ “Only a few,” _ the nobleman produced a scroll and presented it to her,  _ “nothing you will disagree with, we are certain.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be asking yourself - shouldn’t she have put the conversation with Oberyn in this chapter? 
> 
> Next chapter. Promise.


	41. Myr II

Myr had provided her with a manse and servants enough to fill it. Dinner was sweet suckling pig and turnips soaked in butter, with pigeon pie and a pale, green nectar wine. Daenerys ate with her men, and then retired early.

She had taken up the chambers belonging to the master of the house, and in the connecting quarters she could hear Irri humming as she felt the soft sheets of the bed prepared for her. In the smaller handmaiden’s rooms, she thought she might find Qezza curled up with a book on languages, feet bare and tucked under her long skirts, if she looked. She had sought Dany’s permission to return to wearing tokars once they left the Bay of Dragons, and while Dany had consented, the horribly restricting garments had not lasted long. 

There was a silver, oval coin on the side-table, along with wine made from blood oranges. The blankets which covered the bed were of the finest cloth in Myr, worth their weight in gold or spice, and embroidered with little red dragons. On the far wall was a massive painting of dragons, old and young, bright and dark, over the black stone of Valyria in her prime. For all its beauty in the candlelight Dany knew that it would be glorious in the morning sun.

Dany was admiring it when a knock came on the door, followed by the brisk Astapori Valyrian of one of Mossador’s men. _ “Mhysa, the Dornishman to see you.” _

_ “Let him in,” _ she bid the Unsullied, and the door opened to reveal Oberyn. 

Although it was Dornish tradition to wear loose head-coverings in their deserts, he had largely abandoned the habit in Essos. The orange-and-yellow color scheme remained, and today he had little red-gold snakes trimming his sleeves and hem. With confident steps, he crossed the beautiful carpets to stand next to her, following her gaze to look up at the dragons. “It is a beautiful painting.”

“Perhaps one day dragons will again fill the skies,” she noted, “it is such a lovely dream.” She looked away from the dragons and the dark structures of Valyria. “Would you like wine, Prince Oberyn?”

His dark eyes looked down at her. “I fear I have offended you by riding Rhaegal, and I do not know how. I did not mean to steal them from you.”

“A dragon cannot be stolen. Rhaegal is not a slave. If they have chosen you for their rider they are within their rights.” She turned away from him, then. There were four wine glasses on the table. She filled one with the sweet blood orange wine. While he examined the bottle she relinquished, she sat at the table, relieving the pressure on her leg. “You have done nothing wrong. As I said, it is good to have two dragons in a battle rather than one.”

“Then it is something else.” Oberyn sat in the other chair across from her. He was a bold man. Dany knew he had no longer hesitated to accept Rhaegal’s trust than he did to confront the subject at hand now. His actions had not been intended to hurt her, she knew. Indeed, in another life, her children’s acceptance of riders would have been cause for celebration. “Tell me. Whatever I can do to help you I will do.”

Dany sipped at the wine. It was a fine vintage, she was sure, but it tasted like ash in her mouth. It reminded her too much of the dying flames of Kings Landing. She set it away from her. “Viserys told me that, at one time, the Targaryens counted twenty dragons in their number, but after the Dance there were only two left.”

“You fear that I would betray you,” Oberyn’s voice was gentle. He thought he understood, and he did not. Once she had trusted too much; did she now trust too little? “I have named you as my queen. All of Dorne would fight and die for you.”

“Would you?” Dany asked, “If I go off chasing legends or burned Kings Landing to the ground, would I still be your queen?”

“If you wish to chase legends, we will go,” Oberyn smirked at her, his humor returning to him. “Daenerys, there are three dragons in the world today when there were not for hundreds of years. If you decide to chase mythical creatures perhaps it is because they are not mythical. And Kings Landing, what of it? It is full of your enemies. May the city rot.”

“What if I burned Sunspear?”

“Why would you burn Sunspear?” 

“Why would I burn Kings Landing?”

“Your enemies are within.”

“It is full of smallfolk,” Dany searched his face for understanding. “Innocents. If the city surrendered to me, and I killed them, does your honor not demand I die?”

“Tywin Lannister sacked the city once.” Oberyn said, sober once more. “He had homes lit on fire, women raped, and the royal family killed. No one rebuked him. Indeed, his daughter was made wife to the new king.”

“I must be better than Tywin Lannister. Why else would anyone follow me?”

“You told me you would give us justice,” Oberyn drank from his glass. “That is what queens are for, you said.”

“And the rest of Westeros?”

“When Aegon came to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, the Kings of the Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne you must win it as he did. As Robert Baratheon did. With steel and fire. It will mean blood on your hands before it is done.”

“The blood of my enemies. Not the blood of innocents.” The words felt hollow. Had she been Jon Snow’s enemy when he buried a dagger in his chest? Had she been Tyrion’s when he chose his dead siblings over his victorious queen? Had Varys been her enemy before he decided that a cock was the most important consideration when crowning a monarch? She did not like the answer at hand.

“Innocents?” He spoke in a low, earnest tone. WIne glass hanging from his fingers, he joined her in leaning his elbows on his knees. His eyes met hers over the slight distance between them. “The small folk killed many of those dragons you mourn. They turned on Joffrey too, set the city afire, stole the Stark girl and raped a lady of House Stokeworth. Slaughtered the High Septon and men of the Kingsguard. Just because they do not raise arms against you does not make them innocents. Surely the slavers taught you that.”

“So I can kill them without a trial?” Dany demanded, growing angry. With him or with herself she did not know.

“You can do anything you please. You are the queen.” Oberyn said. “I would not recommend doing so, but I would not recommend doing things that many kings and queens have. The First Men killed the Children of the Forest. The Andals killed the First Men. And the Valyrians killed the Andals. It is how the world works.”

She looked away, down at her hands. “I want to build a better world.” 

“In order to build a better world you will need power. You need to be the queen in order to change the laws.” Oberyn reached across the space between their knees to rest a hand atop her own. “Perhaps the person you must be to build a better world will not be welcome in this new world. Is that what you fear?”

Dany hesitated. “If I burned Sunspear to the ground you would turn against me.”

“Perhaps I would.” When she looked up, his gaze was steady. “When lords swear service to a ruler, they are expected to receive certain rights and protections. Trials for the accused. Not being stripped of lands and titles unless they have committed crimes. Being allowed to live, instead of being beheaded because the king did not like the color of their tunic that morning. That is much of what makes them lords.” He did not look away from her, even as he told her truths she did not like. “_ Mhysa _, they call you. Mother. A freer of slaves understands that all men have worth. That a king is not a king if he does no justice for those who cannot take it for themselves.”

“So you follow me because I will give you justice and rule of law.” Dany asked, dubious.

“That is why men followed Robert.” Oberyn answered. “Rhaegar abandoned his wife and heirs and made off with a noblewoman. When her family demanded explanation and recompense, Aerys burned them alive instead of giving them, and his son, a proper trial. After doing so, he ordered one of his lords paramount to break guest right and hand over their wards. If Arryn had stood for that, it would have been tantamount to acknowledging that Aerys had the right to do as he did.”

“And so they found themselves a new king” 

“They found their justice by casting Aerys off the throne. That is what Westeros wars over now, is it not? Justice. Tywin and Stannis over who was Robert’s rightful heir. Robb Stark over a bastard murdering his father, rather than the justice of the trueborn king executing a traitor to the crown? It is what Dorne desires for the innocents Robert trampled underfoot. It is what you want, for your family. For Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys and innocent little Rhaenys and Aegon.”

“And justice is putting Aerys’ daughter on the throne?”

“You are not Aerys’ daughter. You are Daenerys Stormborn. The Westerosi consider slavery an abomination, but they sit idly by while the rest of the world sells men as chattel. They have men and coin; you had the leftovers of a half-dozen _ khalasars _ and three infant dragons. And the lords of the Seven Kingdoms did nothing, while you have freed half the world. They fight over Aegon the Conquerorś throne, and his heir casts aside any plans of conquest to help strangers. Tell me, Daenerys, what justice is there in seating anyone else on the Iron Throne?” 

His hand tightened over hers, drawing her attention. “If Dorne betrayed you, plotted against you, went to war for your enemies, perhaps you would be within your rights to burn Sunspear and all her people to the ground. To execute Doran and set Trystane aside from the line of inheritance. But we have not. We never will. You are _ Mhysa _ to the slaves and dragonlord to the masters, but you are our queen.”

“Is it that simple?” Dany asked him, aware that her voice was rough and her eyes bright. “To follow a ruler instead of siding with blood because they are blood?”

“To follow honor.” Oberyn insisted. “To name you queen, and then betray you. That is not honor.”

She could not quite stifle the bark of laughter. “And do you think Tyrion is following what his honor demands?”

“I do. Although not for honorable reasons.”

“Is there great honor in abandoning your family?”

“No more than finding a new queen because you are fleeing an accusation of kinslaying and kingslaying.” Oberyn seemed to think that the emotional part of the conversation was over. He lifted his wine and sipped at it, and Dany watched his throat move. Watched him frown at the sweetness of his drink. “You are not asking Tyrion to turn his back on his family. Tyrion is asking that of himself. He did not have to kill his father. He did not have to seek out the last Targaryen and ask her to accept his service. You did not go begging. He might have gone to any of the Free Cities he pleased, or sailed so far as Yi Ti.”

Dany watched him carefully. She had not thought of it from that perspective before. Just as, in her past life, she had not considered leaving Westeros to their lords. Her name had drawn her to the Iron Throne, just as Tyrion’s compelled him to find a new monarch to serve. A Targaryen was a queen, and a Lannister was power-hungry.

She could not quite stifle her curiosity. “And what if there was another? A male Targaryen with a better claim than mine. Rhaegar’s son. Or Viserys’.”

“What if Aerys had another son?” Oberyn asked her. “What if Viserys lived? By all accounts, Rhaegar was rash and Viserys weak. Neither was like to abandon conquest for compassion.”

As Dany considered this, Oberyn drank the last of his wine and sat the glass aside. “But other than that, there is no other with a better claim to a Targaryen throne than you. Any of Viserys’ children would be bastards, and Rhaegar’s only trueborn son was my sister’s Aegon. Aegon is dead, and my sister had no more sons. I would have known. 

“Anyone who claimed to be Rhaegar’s trueborn son would be a liar. Your father mistrusted Rhaegar, he would never have legitimized one of his bastards. And Rhaegar was never the king to do so himself. Nor could he set Elia aside, for she had given him a male heir.”

Dany frowned, the beginnings of something curling in the back of her skull. “I had heard annulment was allowed within the Seven Kingdoms.”

“They are. But only if the marriage is unfruitful. Even if Elia had given him two daughters he could not have set her aside, but a male heir? Dorne would have risen in revolt for the boy when Rhaegar died, and the Faith would have rebelled while he still lived.”

There was silence for a moment. Dany alone with her thoughts, and Oberyn’s gaze resting heavy on her. But she was not angry anymore. Just tired. Samwell Tarly had told Jon that he was Rhaegar’s son, that Rhaegar had annulled his marriage to Elia and wed Lyanna Stark in her place. Yet she had never seen the book that claimed so. Even if it did exist, Samwell could have made it up to harm the woman who killed his father and brother. Bran Stark had agreed with the claim of annulment… but Bran was Jon’s brother too. He would only profit if his brother was king, and there would be no one to threaten his claim to the North.

Instead of saying that, she said, “It is known that sometimes Targaryens took two wives.”

“Aegon the Conqueror did,” Oberyn had his answer at the ready, “but he was wed before the Targaryens came into the Faith. Maegor the Cruel wed several wives as well, but the Faith were furious and afterward not even the dragonlords dared to do such a thing.”

Almost idly, Dany added, “Viserys said that might have been because the High Septon’s niece was Maegor’s first wife.”

“Perhaps, but that does not change the anger that would follow any attempt at a second marriage. Even Targaryens before the Dance took only one woman to wife, and Rhaegar did not even have dragons to support such a claim.” His viper’s eyes sharpened, then. “Are you trying to tell me that someone has claimed to be Rhaegar’s son?”

There was no better person to tell her brother’s secrets too than his wife’s family, she supposed. Oberyn would never accept that his sister and her children had been set aside for a Stark girl betrothed to another man. Dorne was more likely to give up land and fortune and sail to Yi Ti before accepting a second wife whose children might threaten Aegon’s claim. Elia had been wronged, her family had been wronged, and the fault did not rest with them What had Dorne done to deserve the ill cast upon them?

“No.” She felt self-pitying opening her mouth to say it, but she said. “I was only thinking. There is no one in this world who, if I killed their father, would love me still.”

“I imagine that is true for many men.” Oberyn returned.

“What about Jaime Lannister? He loves his brother still.”

“Cersei has no lost love for Tyrion.”

“But he loves her still. It’s different. Lannisters are Lannisters. Even if they kill the king. Even if they kill their father. Even if they destroy the Sept of Baelor with wildfire.” A soft smile crossed her face. “There are no Targaryens. I am alone in the world.”

Oberyn did not focus on what she thought he would. “The sept? Cersei?”

“Yes. She will take the throne in no one’s name but her own. And they will still love her.” She did not want to think of what Westeros had given her while they yet loved Cersei. She had burned down the Sept, and her brothers loved her. Dany had saved the lives of Northmen against the White Walkers, and they had hated her.

Oberyn was still watching her, almost curious. Now he lifted a hand to her face. “Aegon V burned down Summerhall because he coveted power. Your grandfather was a man who married his frightened little girl to her cruel brother despite both their wishes. Your father burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive. Robert Baratheon encouraged the murder of children. Joffrey is said to have cut kittens out of a cat’s stomach and brutalized his hostages. Stannis burns men alive to his Red God. Renly betrayed his own family for a crown. And you, Daenerys Stormborn, you refuse to sail for your homeland because there are strangers in chains.

“I tell you Dorne awaits with 30,000 spears, and you chose to live in a war camp. You take the Free Cities and give them over to the people. You sit and allow supplicants into your camp to see you personally and give them whatever they might need. Free food, clean water, places to sleep they do not have to pay for. You give them lands and gold and freedom.

“Lifetimes go by without a person being born who deserves to rule. Kings practice cruelties on smallfolk because they have no protection. Sellswords and high lords fight over lands and gold. Pirates and slavers prey on the weak. That is why people follow you. Because you have a good heart. Because you will give them justice not when it aids you, but when it is only for them. Because you care.”

“There will be no love for me in Westeros.” Dany had to look away, pulling her face from his grip in the process.

Oberyn slipped from his chair and took her face in his hands until she had to look down at him. “My people will love you. When Aegon took the Seven Kingdoms he did not take Dorne. She has never been conquered. We will rise for you, Daenerys, because we believe in you.”

“For justice.” Dany thought she might be crying. She blinked sharply to ward off the tears, but they fell anyway. 

“Because you would not take the throne over the bodies of Robert’s children.” He wiped the tears away with his thumb, and Dany let the weight of her head lean into him. “Because you will be the queen that Westeros needs. Even if you are not quite what she wants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is our longest chapter yet. I stayed up until 1am poking at it, so I hope it’s good :)


	42. Myr III

High above the Flatlands outside of Myr the dragons danced.

Daenerys and Drogon circled with unusual precision for a creature 17 meters (55 feet) long. A wooden staff flew past his right wing, unthreatening in its path. Drogon drew his wings into his body and glided downward, into the forest, dodging the trees with patient caution and emerging above the heads of the Unsullied. They threw a hail of staffs upwards, and Drogon spun, wings tight, and continued untouched.

Rhaegal was having no such luck. Dany made it look easy, she knew, but her expertise had been learned a lifetime ago above Dragonstone. In this life, too, she had flown on Drogon until he was as a second skin. If she focused she could control him or either of his siblings from the ground, but she could not focus on two dragons at one time. Oberyn and Rhaegal must learn as she did, through trial and error.

The green dragon had been hit with so many staffs in the first hour of this training that Dany had needed to take a break to fetch them for the Unsullied. He had still fared better than Viserion, who was now sulking with a sympathetic Irri and amused Jorah. They were doing better now, not turning into the path of staffs and avoiding many of them.

She turned wide, just outside of the throwing range of the Unsullied, and into Rhaegal’s wingspace. Oberyn tried to move away, worried about his mount, but Dany had ridden in a dragon fight before. Viserion had been teeth and claws and shrieking blue flame, and for all of Rhaegal’s wildness they did not compare to a wight. Drogon swept past with less than a meter between them, and carried on into the skies.

Oberyn was not a man to back away from a challenge. He turned Rhaegal sharply to follow, and in doing so he came into the range of the staffs. One soared just over his head. He startled, and pressed his torso against green scales, gripped at long spines as he fell flat against the dragonś back. Rhaegal huffed sharply, trying to avoid the attack and not being able to observe the fake spears and move individual parts of themself fast enough at the same time. Sensing the issue, their rider stopped chasing Drogon and returned his focus to the ground. 

High above, Dany took a moment to look down. When Oberyn and Rhaegal worked as one being, two pairs of eyes and one body, they were doing well. But if Oberyn’s attention faltered or Rhaegal argued with his rider both suffered. A dragon was not a horse to be trained and commanded. They were proud and fierce creatures, who would only obey their rider if they trusted and respected them. Drogon knew that Dany would not allow him to be hurt, and so their flight was flawless.

Before Drogon bowed to her will Daenerys had found herself in Vaes Dothrak. She had no longer been a  _ Khaleesi _ without a proper  _ khalasar _ or the queen of a rebellious city. When she burned the  _ khals _ she had been the blood of the dragon and nothing else. It was not fate or men or magic that had saved her. She had done it. And afterward, when she had known who she was, Daenerys had let that be taken from her.

She never would again.

Far below, down where the Unsullied were gathered, a horn sounded. Dany looked over her son’s wings and found Jorah on the ground, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked upward. Drogon dove downward, wings flaring out at the last moment to cushion his landing. Nearby, Oberyn was trying to land Rhaegal, rather than simply asking the dragon to land, and the result was a long, difficult path to the ground. For Rhaegal’s sake, Dany tried not to laugh.

“What is it?” She asked Jorah, leaning over Drogon’s neck to look down at him. Her knight had no fear of the enormous black dragon she rode. Indeed, when Drogon snuffled against his chest, Jorah pet the soft scales of his head.

“A letter from our uncle,” Nymeria replied before he could. She wore a gown of copper silk from the Jade Sea, so sheer and fine that the light shone through it. Her long black braid shone with copper thread, and on her right forearm an ornate snail shone gold and copper in the sun. “Word from Dorne.”

Of the three Sand Snakes Daenerys had met, Nymeria was the most like her father. She was highborn and well-traveled, fiercely protective and swift to anger. And for all that she was a bastard, she was also exceptionally privileged. Obara reacted to a slight with violence, because she associated emotions with weakness. This was why she wanted to return to Westeros so desperately, Dany knew. Because her father had so long mourned Elia Martell and now they stood on the precipice of revenge. Tyene was as deadly and cunning as a viper, but she hid her wrath well under modest dress and innocence. Of the three Tyene was likely the most dangerous. And while the other two had once been daughters of peasant mothers, Nymeria knew the high lords well.

“What does he say?” Dany asked.

“We haven’t opened it. It bears the seal of Dorne, and is addressed to Prince Oberyn.” Jorah said. Nymeria gave her the letter, stretching up over Drogon’s scales, and Dany turned it over so that she could see the orange-gold wax.

Oberyn, having untangled himself from Rhaegal’s back and managed the jolt of the landing, crossed under Drogon’s neck to stand beside his daughter. Eager, Dany handed the letter back down, so that he might pry off the wax and open it. As she waited impatiently, a grin spread across his face. “My brother sends word from Dorne.” He looked up at her, delight shining from his features. “The Kingslayer has been captured trying to retrieve Myrcella Baratheon from the Water Gardens.”

“What better war piece than the king’s uncle?” Ser Barristan looked up at her as he stepped around Jorah. She knew what he wished. He would never ask for it, nor even state it outright in front of others, but he wanted to see her on the Iron Throne. She still had sixteen months before she was due to land, and she could hardly tell them that. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be Bran Stark. 

“Does anyone know that he is in Dorne?” On the outskirts of her men, Daenerys could see Tyrion. While Varys had been reluctantly accepted for his information network across the Free Cities - Tyrosh’s latest secret meeting with sellswords had been interrupted by Daario and his men - Tyrion had not been so lucky. He had been struggling to attach himself to the spymaster, and seemed to be learning slowly that if Varys’ interests separated him from Tyrion, he would gladly leave the Lannister behind. 

And while once the fear that flickered across his face might have been taken for attentive listening and contemplation on her cause, now she knew it for what it was. Nevermind her advantage. The only thing Tyrion Lannister was thinking of was getting his brother out of her grasp. Because surely the man that had killed her father deserved her leniency.

Most of her advisors were blind to his concern and her gaze. Oberyn might have been watching her, but he shrugged. “His sister, certainly. Perhaps the little king. But even the king cannot admit that he sent his guards in secret to take his lawfully betrothed sister from her fostering with her future family. The proper method is to ask for Myrcella to visit the capitol. Not to kidnap her. We are not wildlings.”

“Will it harm your family to hold him?” Dany asked.

“Doran is a clever man,” Oberyn said, “and you are his queen. He will keep the Kingslayer until you command otherwise, and not a word of it will reach Kings Landing.”

“Do we still sail for Tyrosh?” Nymeria had been valuable beyond measure in handling the highborn of Lys and Myr, but Dany knew she still wished to return home. Dany could sympathize. And it was not only her question she voiced.

“Yes, once the dragons are ready. I will not risk my children because of my haste.” Dany looked to Rhaegal, who had rejoined their sister and was sniffing at cream scales. Viserion was still sulking over her imagined injuries. The hard wood of the fake-spears might have a dull ache for a time, but within a few hours Viserion would have forgotten any hurt they caused. “With any luck, our conquest will be as swift as it was in Volantis, Lys, and Myr.”

For all her talk, Nymeria did not look upset at the prospect of continuing Daenerys’ campaign. Nor did she argue. After all, it was not as if the Kingslayer was going anywhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know we have 9 followers on Tumblr? And I actually have a working queue (shout-out to Drogon). I think it’s going well. 
> 
> Also, we’re on Wattpad now.
> 
> Loving the teamwork guys! When we hit 10 followers I’ll post two chapters in two days =)
> 
> Edit:
> 
> I’d like to summarize Drogon’s mood in this chapter @Viserion and Rhaegal as: Fly much?
> 
> His siblings are left sulking like any child whose mother favors their bratty little brother.
> 
> (It isn’t true. Viserion is mom’s favorite and they all know it, because Viserion gets the most belly rubs.)


	43. Tyrosh I

Tyrosh was the furthest west of the Free Cities.

Once a military outpost of the Valyrian Freehold to control shipping in the Stepstones, today Tyrosh remained a fortress city protected by high walls. She was located on an island, which was why she had as many ships as the larger Volantis and a city guard rather than a standing army. While trade was considered a more honorable profession than arms, Tyrosh was not hesitant about hiring sellswords to fight battles for her.

There was one other thing notable about Tyrosh. Her ruler was the Archon, chosen from among the members of a conclave of the wealthiest and noblest of the city. This man’s brother had attended the wedding of the last Targaryen princess to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki. According to Oberyn, he had once supported Viserys’ return to the throne as well, but all of that was well past them. It was not the little girl who bore a dragon’s name that came to Tyrosh, but the Breaker of Chains. 

Oberyn had shown off his new skill on Rhaegal’s back in the battle against the fleet, and it had not taken long for two dragons to rout Tyrosh’ best chance at victory. They had not bothered to send a parley. By now the nobles knew that there was no bargaining with Dragon Queen.

Now, with an army of 31,000 freedmen and 5,000 Unsullied outside of their gates, they braced for a siege. Inside of Tyrosh, slaves outnumbered freemen three to one. Daenerys had ordered her men to blockade the gates of the city, and landed Drogon before them. High behind their grey walls, the Tyroshi gathered to see one of the wonders of the world. Atop Drogon, Daenerys smiled. 

In the bastard Valyrian she had learned in her youth, she spoke. “ _ I am Daenerys Stormborn.” _ Through Drogon’s eagle eyes, she watched the city. Atop those walls, highborn stilled, and slaves clustered tight to see her. 

“ _ Your masters may have told you lies about me, or they may have told you nothing at all. It does not matter, for I have nothing to say to them. I speak only to you. First I came to Astapor, and now those who were slaves in Astapor stand behind me. Free. Next I came to Volantis, and those who were slaves in Volantis now rule their city. As free men. So it was for Lys and for Myr. Now I have come to Tyrosh.  _

_ “I am not your enemy. I am your sister in chains. Your enemy is beside you. They steal and murder your children. They have nothing for you but chains and suffering and commands. I do not bring you commands. I bring you a choice. And I bring your enemies what they deserve. “ _

Great trebuchets had been built in Myr and sailed with her to Tyrosh. Now they awaited her orders, staffed by Unsullied captains. Dany turned to Grey Worm, who lifted his hand in the air. Once assured, she looked back to the walls of the city before her. “ _ Fire!” _

Grey Worm’s hand snapped downward. The trebuchets released their burdens. Loosely packed bundles flew toward Tyrosh. As they arched through the air men shrieked and woman scurried to hide. They smashed on the walls and broke apart, their contents raining down on masters and slaves alike. 

Slavers from Yunkai to Myr had given her slave collars. Now Daenerys gave them back.

~oOo~

Outside of Melisandre’s tent the snow was well-packed by the hooves of horses and the feet of soldiers. The wind had picked up while she was inside the tent, and now it sent new puffs of loose snow across the path. Kinvara wore nothing more than the red Essosi robes of a red priestess, but it was not the cold that concerned her.

She was picking her way across the path when someone behind her spoke.

“Lady Kinvara?”

Turning to the side while trying not to fall, she found herself looking into the face of Sansa Stark. The girl was wrapped up in a low-cut brown dress fastened with heavy dragonfly clasps, and given warmth and accent by a dark, heavy scarf and dark teal layers of skirts underneath. Her hair was black, pulled back into a single, high braid reminiscent of Queen Margaery’s hair. The heavy winter cloak she wore was dark blue and furless.

“Sansa Stark. What brings you to Stannis Baratheon’s camp?” Kinvara carefully stepped across the icy ground to come closer.

Sansa looked left and right, radiating nervousness, then exited her tent to stride to Kinvara’s side, her feet casual on the icy ground. Wrapping herself around Kinvara’s arm, she led her back to the tent. The inside was not so fine as Melisandre’s, but it was suitable for a guest of noble birth. Or a hostage of noble birth, perhaps.

Once they cleared the door, Sansa pushed her hood back, a glimmer of gold at her throat. Her blue eyes were wide, but focused. “Petyr sold me to the Boltons. I returned to Winterfell, as you said. And I met his prisoner, Theon Greyjoy. As you said.”

“But you are not in Winterfell now.”

“No. Theon told me…” Sansa shook her head, gaze turning from her companion. “You must already know. He told me that my brothers were alive. That he had killed two miller’s boys. Do you know where they are?”

“The older boy is Beyond the Wall,” Kinvara told her, “the younger… his path is divided, in my fires.” Kinvara said. She had seen Rickon Stark in Winterfell, but she had seen him elsewhere as well. “He told you everything.”

“Yes. I couldn’t stay in Winterfell, I couldn’t marry Ramsay Bolton, not knowing what he was, what he’d done.” Sansa looked up into her dark eyes. “Lady Brienne- I turned down her service. I thought Petyr would protect me. I thought… she helped us escape Winterfell. She brought us here, she would have taken us to the Wall if we had not found Lord Stannis.”

Sansa stepped toward the low fire in the tent. “I looked into the flames the night that Theon told me the truth. I look every night, but I can’t see anything but flames… “ Her eyes caught Kinvara’s. “But you could teach me, couldn’t you?”

Kinvara considered her. The Starks were of the blood of the First Men, who had lain with the Guēseilal and bore the magic of ice and earth in their blood. More importantly, she was sister to a greenseer. Magics of a different kind were given to those of that line, such as skinchanging and true sight. R’hllor required sacrifice by fire to bring forth his magic, to give his followers visions or the gift of life.

Burning Shireen Baratheon may well stop the snows, but burning one such as Sansa Stark would only strengthen them.

Yet the magic of the Guēseilal was unknown to Kinvara. How to summon greensight or speak to the beasts of the forest? Only the Guēseilal knew, and even if they could be found she doubted they would tell anyone. But other magics were not so unknown. Melisandre could teach shadowbinding, if she chose. And Kinvara had taught many to see faces in the flames.

All they needed was fire and blood.


	44. The Flatlands I

Tyrosh was famous for her hiring of sellswords to war against Lys and Myr in the Disputed Lands.

Of late, they had not done so well in their efforts to conqueror, not because their opponents had given up, but because it was difficult to war against two dragons and 100,000 Dothraki riders. Still, it seemed they had not yet relinquished the desire.

Drogon’s wings made short work of the strait between Tyrosh and the mainland. Oberyn and Rhaegal had remained behind to provide support to the Targaryen forces, but Viserion joined them on their flight. It had been a long time since they had flown only to fly, and the dragons gloried in their wings.

Dany did not know exactly where she was to land, but it was impossible to miss the mass of Dothraki that awaited her. She landed between their camp and that of the sellswords, and as she climbed from Drogon’s back Obara and Daario came to meet her. They were much as she had last seen them; Daario dressed in well-worn finery and Obara in leather armor. 

The Dornishwoman’s smile, however, was a new sight. “Your Grace!” Obara greeted her in the Common Tongue. “You’ve come for the Tyroshi sellswords, I expect?”

“I thought it best to see them myself.” Dany agreed. A horse was produced, a pretty dark grey, and she rode with them to the outskirts of the camp where the prisoners were kept. 

As they rode, Daario told her of them men she had come to meet. “ _ The Maiden’s Men are led by Varoquo Irnyr, a Myrman. The Ragged Standard has two captains, Naekys Flaeraenor and Nila Bahoyor.” _

“ _ Do you think they will turn to our cause?” _ Dany asked.

“ _ Varoquo, perhaps. He is of Myr, but he has no great love for the city. Naekys is of the blood of Old Volantis. He will never bow to you. He had kin within the Black Walls.” _ Daario replied.

“What do you want done with those who refuse to turn their cloaks?” Obara said.

In truth, Daenerys did not know. That was why she had come all this way. Most of these sellswords made their fortune from the bickering of the Free Cities, and under the dragon’s rule there would be no fighting. Those who opposed her could find one of the cities she had not taken and fight against her, or lead rebellions in an effort to break the cities from her hold. Unless they crossed over the Bone Mountains there was nowhere for them to go that would not lead to Dany’s army.

But if she was to kill them, then Dany would look in their eyes and hear their words first. Otherwise how could she say they deserved to die? “I will hear them before I decide.” 

When they arrived, Dany was given a seat and refreshment, and the men were brought before her. Naekys and the leaders of the Ragged Standard were first. Naekys looked up at her as her shackles were removed. “ _ You do not fear me, Dragon Queen? We are not your allies.” _

Dany motioned to where Drogon ate what might have been a goat just beyond her tent, and replied in High Valyrian. “ _ Should you attempt to harm me my son will burn down this tent with a breath.” _

_ “He would kill his mother as well.” _

True laughter bubbled out of Dany’s chest. “ _ Perhaps you have not heard of me, and that is why you will not serve me. They call me ‘the Unburnt.’ It is not a boast. I walked from Khal Drogo’s funeral pyre with the first dragons seen in hundreds of years. I killed the  _ khals  _ in Vaes Dothrak by burning down the building I too stood in. Fire cannot kill a dragon.” _

He had no response to that. Instead he spit on the earth and glowered. “ _ What do you want, woman? You take away our gold and expect us to fall in line like dogs. I will never bow to you.” _

Outside of the tent, Drogon ripped apart the ribcage of the goat. It made a horrific tearing sound, and Obara was forced to set her drink aside least it come back up. Next to him, Viserion landed to sniff at the discarded head. The ground shook under her weight. “ _ The Free Cities are mine. I will not have you stand in the way of my birthright.” _

_ “You speak of history that never occurred,”  _ he sneered at her.  _ “The Targaryens never ruled the Free Cities.” _

_ “The dragonlords did, and there stand my dragons.” _ Dany set her wine aside and waved a hand. Four of the Stormcrows appeared with a keg. “ _ Take this as a symbol of my good will. Drink to me, and discuss your options. I will await your answer on the morrow.” _

While the men were removed, Obara took the chance to speak with her. “How fares my father?”

“He and Rhaegal are quite the pair. They were great help in the battle with Tyrosh’s fleet.” Dany told her. “And Nymeria is clever as she has ever been. She was a boon in Myr.”

“Sweet words to noble ears has ever been her gift,” Obara grunted. “Mine is war. I almost do not wish to leave Essos.”

A voice came from outside the tent, too muffled to hear properly. After a moment, a portly man with thinning grey hair entered. He looked little like a warrior. “Queen Daenerys, I am honored to stand in your presence.”

“I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Ser?”

“I am Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company.”

Dany took up her drink, sipping from it as she tried to recall how she knew him in this life. “I remember you now. You were once paymaster, were you not? When my brother Viserys feasted the captains and asked them to aid him in taking his rightful throne your company refused him.”

The man turned an interesting shade of red. “Your brother was but a boy. We wished him no ill will, but he could not have taken the throne as he was. And now he is dead, and here you are.”

Daenerys drank deep from the wine she had been given. It was exceptionally fine, as all of her men had been paid well. She could not tell this man why she was truly angry, but she could draw attention to the point. “Viserys threatened to cut my son out of me, and so I watched as  _ Khal _ Drogo, my husband, crowned him with molten gold.”

Strickland faltered before her gaze. He drew his sword, causing everyone from Obara to the freedman serving the wine to reach for weapons. Then he fell to one knee. “Your brother was not a warrior. You are. The Golden Company would be honored to aid you in taking back the throne of your father. We are ten thousand, with five hundred knights and more squires. We also have two dozen elephants. All of this we swear to you.”

What once was Viserys’ had been hers, the right to the cold, sharp throne of their father. That had never brought her joy. As she watched Cersei’s commander kneel before her, Daenerys could only smile.

~oOo~

“It is the only way.”

“It is not the only way,” Kinvara said. Her voice was even and mild, but only because she knew she had already been defeated. “It is the way you have chosen to see.”

“I have seen the great victory in the flames.” Melisandre insisted. She said nothing about Azor Ahai nor Daenerys Targaryen. The former would lead to an argument between the priestesses, and the later would enrage the Stag Lord. They were in silent agreement to not speak of it. “And death by fire is the purest death.”

Beyond them, Stannis’ hands clenched into fists. Kinvara could see his jaw move as he ground his teeth together. 

Melisandre drew herself up and accused, “You know that this sacrifice will stop the storms.”

“At what price?” 

If Kinvara closed her eyes she could see the blades that would sink into Jon Snow’s chest. Each night she prayed for a glimpse of her queen, and each night she saw only daggers in the dark. She knew what Shireen Baratheon’s death would bring, had seen the wounds in the bastard boy’s chest and the life breathed back into him. Words were rare from the fires, but she had heard his voice.  _ “If I fall, don’t bring me back.” _

If a princess of the blood never died, perhaps Jon Snow would never rise. Perhaps her queen would never be in danger. Perhaps Stannis would take Winterfell and hold the line against the Army of the Dead until Daenerys Stormborn came from the east wielding Lightbringer. The thought of the queen reminded her of something else. Her rage would be great if she knew a child had been sacrificed for the life of Jon Snow.

“There must be someone else.” Stannis interrupted before Melisandre could continue. “King’s blood, you said. We have the Greyjoy, his father named himself a king. And we have Sansa Stark, sister to the Young Wolf who was named King in the North.”

“They were no true kings,” Melisandre was quick to say. “Not like you are.”

Kinvara turned her head to look at the man, weighing his words against the truth. Stannis’ reaction to news of the Targaryens was heavy on that scale. “You have not told him, have you?”

Stannis scowled back at her. “Told me?” He looked to Melisandre. “Told me what?”

“It is not the blood of a king that the Lord of Light desires.” Kinvara said, before the shadowbinder could answer. “It is the blood of Old Valyria.”

Stannis turned to look at Melisandre, who met his gaze with her head lifted high. “It is true. That is why the Lord did not choose your brother’s would-be children. The Lannisters are not of the blood. That is why he chose you.”

“And Renly? He was my brother.”

“As you say, you are the older son and he the younger.” Melisandre strode across the room to stand before the lord she had chosen. “It is your birthright.” She put her hands upon his chest and looked up into his eyes. “It must be Shireen, or it must be you.”

And no noble lord would kill himself when he could kill his daughter, Kinvara knew. Not for the first time did she miss the Queen Across the Waters. Daenerys would never have allowed her children to burn for her, not a daughter and not a son, not if she could stop it. Daenerys had a gentle heart, and this Stannis was as hard as iron.

There was something dark in his eyes as Stannis stared down at Melisandre. “That’s why you burned Alester Florent. Because his grandmother was Elaena Targaryen.”

“It bought us fair winds.” Melisandre did not disagree.

“Melisandre. Do not do this thing.” Kinvara repeated. “I have seen only death.”

The death of a woman, the death of this army, the death of so many Beyond the Wall. And the death of Daenerys Stormborn standing before the Iron Throne. All brought by this action. 

Stannis looked up at her.

“Get out.”


	45. Tyrosh II

In the war camp outside of Tyrosh dinner was pan fried fish, spiced goat cheese, savory shortbread, Myrish red wine, hard boiled quail eggs, dried figs from the Disputed Lands, and smoked horse sausage. It was a simple fare, but it packed well and could be fed to the high queen and low footsoldier alike. Some of the men ate it on their guard duty, but Daenerys had a warm tent for her own. 

Sunset had been several hours ago, and Dany was nibbling on the last of her food while she read about dragonglass. From the libraries of Volantis, the book was fascinating, but it was nothing compared to Dany’s own knowledge about the properties of dragonglass. She had been given dragonglass from Asshai once. Kinvara had a glass candle, and so did Urrathon Night-Walker. They had not burned for a hundred years, but they did now. And it was the only defense against the White Walkers. Their slaves might be cut down with naked steel and a strong man and the lesser demons might burn away, but only Valyrian steel and dragonglass would fell their master.

Although it did not mention the White Walkers, it had much to say about the substance otherwise. When the Doom had come upon Valyria dragonglass had rained from the sky, it said, among many other things. It was missing pages, here and there, but that made it no less interesting. Something about it nagged at the back of her mind. Like it was something obvious just out of reach. A connection her head had never thought to make.

It bothered her still when someone opened the tent flap, sending a gust of cool air throughout the room. Dany turned to see who the Unsullied had let past, and found Irri standing just inside the door. Oberyn had tired of her late night reading and retired to his own tent, so it was only Dany herself, and Qezza asleep in the furs behind her. Never before had Irri been so hesitant.  _ “Come in, Irri. Did you have need of me?” _

“ _ Khaleesi _ ,” Irri hurried toward her, taking her hands in hers and falling to her knees before her. Dany wore long, soft skirts, intended to allow her leg freedom of movement. Irri buried her face in the fabric.

“ _ What? What is this?” _ Dany reached down to cup Irri’s face in her hands and lift her eyes to her own. “ _ What is wrong, qoy inavva? Tell me and I will set it to right.” _ (blood sister)

“ _ I have done you ill, Khaleesi.” _ Tears streamed from her eyes, and she made no effort to wipe them away. “ _ Please forgive me.” _

Daenerys was baffled.  _ “Irri, you are a better sister than Viserys ever was a brother. What could you have done? Tell me. Do not be afraid.” _

_ “I have lain with a man.”  _

“ _ As is your right. Why does this upset you so, dear heart?”  _ Dany found herself worried that he had been foolish enough to hurt her. But Irri was handmaid to the queen, who would think that such a thing would not reach Daenerys’ ears?

“ _ Anha mesik. _ ”

“ _ This is wonderful news!” _ Dany wiped the tears from her face. _ “Does he not wish you to be pregnant?” _

Irri’s hands reached up to cling to Dany’s wrists. Her eyes searched Dany’s face as she spoke. “It’s not- I have-  _ Khaleesi _ . Jorah  _ Andahli  _ is the father.”

She laughed, and took back one of her hands to find a handkerchief on her table. “Irri,  _ gizikhven ato.  _ Why are you sad?” Dany pressed it to her face, and Irri lifted a hand to cover it. “This is wonderful news.” (dear one)

“He said that he was sworn to never marry or have children,” Irri explained, looking at the cloth in her hand and then back up at Dany. “I thought you would be angry. That he will have a child. That I did not tell you.”

“Was he upset with you?” Dany asked. “He has no right to be.”

“I have not told him.” Irri said. “I spoke with the healers tonight, and I came to you.”

“You must tell him!” Dany insisted. “We must have a wedding!”

“ _ Khaleesi, _ I…  _ what if he does not wish to marry me?” _

_ “If you do not wish to marry, then you do not have to. But the child will be raised as though his father were the greatest of the  _ khals. _ I will give him a hundred horses and a manse in Volantis. I will give her gold and fine silks. They will wed a Prince of the Summer Isles or a Volantene noblewoman. They will be blood of my blood.”  _ Dany kissed Irri’s hands. “ _ Have you asked him what he wants?” _

Irri was leaning on her knees now, using Daenerys for support rather than crying on her. “ _ I have not. I do not think he will want to marry me.” _

_ “If he is difficult, send him to me. I will speak to him.” _

~oOo~

As Cersei Lannister was carried into the Red Keep by the man who is Ser Gregor Clegane and yet not, the Queen of Thrones returned to her personal chambers. She wore the green and gold of House Tyrell, veil over her head and jewelry shining bright, but this is only a mask she presents.

In fine gowns and heavy jewels, she was a lady of House Tyrell. She was not unlike Cersei in this. Crowned and gowned she was a queen, but naked and bald she was a mockery. Olenna feared for her granddaughter greatly. There was a table next to her bed with empty parchment and a prepared quill upon it. She began to pen a letter, alone in her chambers. Until someone sat across from her, she did not even notice that she had company.

The quill stilled. She made no movement to cover her writing, despite the urge to do so. Olenna was recoiling to snap at the newcomer when she recognized her. “You again? Have you come to taunt me?”

“Have I ever taunted you?” Kinvara asked. Her red skirts settled over the chair as she met the eyes of the woman before her. Olenna Tyrell was a dangerous woman, threatened and trapped as she was. She folded her hands on her lap and studied her face. “I warned you to send Loras from the city, and you did not. I warned you to protect Margaery. And you did not.”

“And now both are prisoners because I did not listen. Is that what you mean?” Olenna set her quill aside without looking away from her. “You are all-seeing. What must I do now? What do you see?”

“Do not fear. Your rose will return to the Red Keep.” Kinvara soothed. “She must then depart the city. Hear me, Olenna Tyrell: if Margaery stays in Kings Landing she will die. Announce a procession. Beg the king on your knees. Smuggle her out in a hay cart. But she must go.”

“What about Loras?” Olenna demanded.

“There is nothing to be done.”

“There must be something! Pray to your god, demand he answer you in your fires! My grandson is-”

Olenna Tyrell’s voice was cut off by a scuffling sound. Kinvara’s concentration broke, and the vision the glass candle had given her was no more. She crossed the floor to find Ser Davos standing outside of her tent. “Come in. Warm yourself by the fire.”

The knight did as he was bid, glancing around the room. She had only a bed of furs and a fire, but the fire burned vivid and bright. His gaze lingered on the candle for several moments before he tore his eyes away as if it hurt him to look upon it. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Your king will do something terrible.” Kinvara said.

He tensed. “If you don’t like something Stannis is doing that is between you and him. I’m not going to-”

“Shireen is going to die.”

His mouth snapped shut, and he looked at her as though she’d stepped into the fire and started to burn. Ser Davos glanced back toward the tent entrance, and lowered his voice. “What do you mean, ‘Shireen is going to die’? She’s his daughter. Stannis would never harm her.”

“Stannis will send you back to Castle Black for men and supplies.” Kinvara walked around the fire, forcing Davos to look over it if he wanted to continue watching her. “And then Melisandre will burn the girl to stop the storms.” Davos said nothing. He stood across the fire, eyes boring into her very soul, expressionless. “You know I speak the truth. She has done this before.”

“All Melisandre wants is to burn people in the name of your god.” Davos said. “Why don’t you?”

“Melisandre thinks that a sacrifice will stop the storms and give Stannis victory at Winterfell. It will not, but I am not Westerosi and Stannis is not my king.” Kinvara said. “Are you asking me why I do not want to burn a little girl for no reason?”

“This, what you’re asking me to do. It’s treason.”

“So was smuggling food into Storm’s End. What say you, Ser Davos, is saving the princess of the realm treason?”


	46. Tyrosh III

While Tyrosh’s walls were high and thick they had few men. A city guard of 5,000 consisting of freemen and some ten thousand sellsword companies who had been richly paid and swiftly moved within the city’s walls before the Targaryen forces had arrived. It was not so many men as other cities had, but all were free. 

Against most forces this might have been sufficient to defend the city, but, while Drogon was not the size he had been when they burned Kings Landing, he was still some eighteen meters (60 feet) long. Never before had the dragons been the main force in a battle. Volantis was taken by a rebellion, Lys through short, calculated attacks, and Myr through fear. Tyrosh might have thought herself safe.

Within her walls, the city guard and sellswords were readying themselves to defend the city. Trebuchets were useful for far more than a statement, and when dawn had given them enough light to see her men had already been in position for an attack. Archers and ballista had been readied, and the inner city was quiet. Waiting.

High above them, so distant that they could not make out Drogon’s form, Daenerys had no more patience for slavers. 

The first blast of dragonfire was a revelation. It destroyed the stone wall around the gate through sheer force, and the massive wooden gates burned swiftly. Men died without making a sound, their burning bodies dropping to the stone. Others were crushed by the falling wall. The spout of fire lasted for meters beyond the wall itself, but dissipated before the heat could cause damage to her own lines. 

Drogon’s wings beat the air, pulling himself from his hovering position behind the main gates. He shrieked, and her armies answered the call. Shouting, her men charged the empty space where the gates had once been. Drogon took a second breath, and sprayed dragonfire across the men who remained atop the wall and the ballistas they struggled to bring around. 

Once Daenerys had told the Thirteen in Qarth that her children would lay waste to armies and burn cities to the ground. It had not been a promise in vain. The men of Tyrosh were routed. They fled the oncoming army without care. Some ran to the nearest buildings and struggled with the defenders to get inside. Others ran straight down the roadways, too frightened to do more than run. 

Dany took a moment to appreciate the sight of Harry Strickland and some small number of his cavalry charging into the fray. What few men had regrouped and made a stand were cut down by the horses and their riders. Drogon made a second pass, aiming along the wall to destroy the remainder of the ballista. She passed over just as the footsoldiers reached the walls. The cavalry took no prisoners, but many of the sellswords threw down their weapons after they had passed. 

In the distance, Rhaegal burned more ballista. She had sent Oberyn to where there would be fewer preparations, but more living men. Dany herself would oversee the main army, trusting her son to not harm their own people with his flames. In truth, there was little to do. She had no wish to burn the slaves within the city, and the army was in ruins. Tyrosh’s sellswords would never prioritize a contract over their lives in the face of a hopeless battle, and her city guard were rapidly overrun.

She had advocated for mercy for any who lay down their arms, but the dragon had no compassion for ballista. Systematically Daenerys and Drogon swept along the walls and the high towers, over the wagons and supply lines, and burned everything that might have been a ballista. Her determination stemmed from two concerns. First, defense of her children, and second, to send a lesson to others who might decide to fight dragons with bolts. Let every man from the Wall of Westeros to Sothoryos’ Green Hell, and even the White Walkers Beyond the Wall, know that if they manned a ballista they would die.

~oOo~

There was no warning or courtesy given then the soldier arrived at Kinvara’s tent.

A hand dragged the tent flap and four men entered to bring her to Stannis’ war counsel. Four armed and armoured soldiers for one woman. She supposed she should be pleased that the king took her faith seriously. They led her from her tent and through the snows to the center of camp.

Inside Stannis and Melisandre awaited her. The younger priestess turned to look when she was announced, but she said nothing. Stannis’ jaw clenched. “You came to my camp asking for shelter and now you have stolen my daughter? Where is she?”

“I do not have her.” Kinvara said. “I could not hide a girl in my tent.”

“You sent her off with Ser Davos,” Melisandre said, from beside the fire. “Back to the Wall.”

“Davos will take her to Eastwatch and cross the Narrow Sea if he must.” Stannis scowled.

“He is a loyal man.” Kinvara allowed.

“Perhaps we could take you in her place. You must have some Valyrian blood in you.” Stannis said.

“We cannot sacrifice her. She is the Lord of Light’s chosen servant. He will not bless us for harming those he claimed as his own.” Melisandre’s eyes had never left her. “Why did you do this? Is a single girl of such importance?”

“I did what the Lord commanded of me, as is my duty.” Kinvara replied. 

Stannis stared at her for a long moment, until he had to look away. He turned from KInvara and the fire, pacing over to the map on the opposite side of the room. Melisandre followed, gripping at his arm and leaning over his shoulder. “It is not too late.” She said. “We can send men after them.”

“It is. We do not have the supplies to wait here for them to be trailed.” Stannis shoved Melisandre’s hand off his shoulder. “I never should have considered it; Shireen is my heir. Jon Snow was right. My honor is worth more than a blizzard. What is the point of killing Shireen and taking the throne?”

Melisandre pressed herself between him and the table, taking his face in her hands. “Stannis. There is only one way forward. You have a responsibility to the realm.”

“My responsibility is not only to sit the Iron Throne. Who will go on after me?” He gripped her wrists tightly and pried them from his face. “What will the realm do if I am dead, and my daughter was killed to stop a storm?”

“We cannot turn back. Your destiny is in Winterfell.” He ripped himself away from her and turned his back. She followed after him, pleading. “Stannis!”

“Shireen is not the only one with king’s blood.” The Stag Lord’s eyes lifted to Kinvara. “There is another.”


	47. Tyrosh IV

It was some time since Daenerys had truly conquered a city with dragonfire.

Once they secured the city the rest of the day was threefold. First the Unsullied went from door to door, casting those who owned slaves out of their homes. After this had begun, her freedmen set up places for the helpless to find food and shelter. These would be centers for freedmen and masters alike for many days, but, like in Meereen, eventually they would be frequented mostly by the masters. 

Last of all she sent men among them dressed like the new freedmen of Tyrosh. These spies would tell her who was best to lead the new government and warn her of any plots. Varys had his own people within Tyrosh, but she had found that freedmen found information that the spymaster did not. He may have been a slave once, but his time in Kings Landing had made him forgetful.

Dany herself rode through the streets on a perlino stallion. His body shone in the sunlight, the silver-gold of him unmistakable throughout the city. She was the first of her Speakers. The only one they would have until Tyrosh was settled. Men came to her to have their collars removed. Woman held up babes returned to them for her to bless. Children trailed behind her horse, singing and dancing. It was a celebration of their freedom as much as a much-needed remedy for the people.

Eventually most of her freedmen came to call her _Mhysa, _as they did in the Bay of Dragons, but, in the Free Cities, Daenerys had a hundred names. The followers of the Red God named her _Zaldrīzotimuña _(Dragonmother). Among the Dothraki she was _Khaleesi_ _Vizhadi or Khaleesi Maegi_ (Silver Queen, Witch Queen_)_, and in Myr and Lys she was _Dāria Zaldrīzes_ (Dragon Queen). Volantis named her _Zaldrīzesāeksio _(Dragonlord), and here in Tyrosh, broken with dragonfire, they danced behind her and called out _Dāeremiros _(emancipator, free-maker).

No matter what they said, her mission was the same. She was not a god to be worshiped, but a spark to set fire to revolution.

~oOo~

Kinvara stood on the outskirts of the crowd, closer to the tents than the cast majority.

Everyone had gathered for this. Even Theon Greyjoy, under heavy guard, stood outside of his tent and watched the priestess stand before the stake she had ordered built. The men parted to allow their queen through, two guards before her and two behind, and she came to the front to stand behind Melisandre.

“Where is Stannis?” She asked. “Is it time?”

Melisandre turned away from the fire to look upon Selyse Baratheon, and she wore no smile. “Peace, Selyse. It will all be over soon.”

“No,” said Selyse, as realization dawned. “No you can’t do this.”

She took two steps back, and then her arms were grabbed by the guards who had once protected her. The queen was dragged forward. “No! No! Let me go! I am the queen! You said it was Shireen! You can’t do this! Stannis! STANNIS!”

“What are they doing?” Sansa asked, from Kinvara’s side. The lady knight next to her had a fierce grip on her sword’s pommel and a squire with frightened eyes.

Once the woman was tied in place atop the pyre, Stannis left his place on the edge of the crowd to stand before her. “Stannis, please! Please!”

“You said that it was what the Lord wanted.” He told her. “That it was a good thing.”

“It was Shireen that He wanted! Shireen, not me!”

“He has spoken.” Stannis looked at the priestess, and then turned his back. “If we don’t act we’ll all starve here.”

“I have served the Lord loyally! He can’t do this! Melisandre! You can’t do this!” Selyse writhed in her bonds, helpless. Kinvara had no sympathy for her. She had sacrificed thousands upon thousands, but few were a mother who would have sold their daughter in their place. 

Over her cries Melisandre’s voice was calm as it carried over the men. “Hear us now, my Lord. To you we offer up this woman, that You may cleanse her with Your fire and that its light may lead our way. Accept this token of our faith, my Lord, and lead us through the darkness.”

“They can’t.” Sansa snatched at her arm.

“You cannot stop them.” Kinvara did not turn her gaze from the false queen’s screaming at Melisandre, who now held a torch. “I cannot stop them. Go back to your tent, Lady Sansa. Pack everything you must have in saddlebags. Make ready to leave.”

“I don’t understand,” Sansa pleaded, “why is she doing this?”

“It will stop the snows. Allow the army to march on Winterfell.”

“He is doing this for me?”

“No.” Stannis did this because he believed himself to be the hero that would lead the people out of the Long Night. “He does not want to return to winter at the Wall, and he does not have enough food to wait.”

“There must be something we can do!”

“Go and pack.” Kinvara looked down at her frightened eyes. “This is the cost of the Lord’s favor. Stannis will take Winterfell.”

Brienne of Tarth touched Sansa’s shoulder. “Come away, my lady. Please.”

“No, no I have to talk to him. I have to make him see sense.” She let go of Kinvara and made to start toward the crowd.

She did not go far. Kinvara caught her elbow. “If you try to stop it they will detain you, and then they will detain your knight. More people will die-”

Selyse started to wail. It was long and loud and inhuman. Kinvara had heard it many times, but the Westerosi had not. It stilled the entire camp. Even Sansa could not will herself to move. This was what turned so many away from the Lord in Westeros, Kinvara knew. The Essosi were used to horrors. Slavery and necromancy alike, it was not unknown in the east, but the west thought themselves above such darkness.

It went on and on and on. Once Selyse had stopped screaming, once she was dead, an eerie quiet settled over the camp.

Sansa turned away from the scene at last, her knight trailing behind, and returned to her tent. Those who followed R’hllor waited before the fire, as was their wont, and the rest fled into the tents, where they could hide their faces from the aftermath of a sacrifice. Kinvara remained with those that followed her Lord. It took hours for the fire to burn down through the thick logs that had built the stake.

As the last of it burned away she noticed Sansa emerge from the rows of tents. The Stark girl skirted the men, heading to where Stannis still stood. Sansa greeted the would-be king with a low curtsey, and spoke briefly to him. When they had finished speaking she continued down to where Melisandre still stood before the dying fire.

A number of guards followed her from Stannis’ side. They lay a sheet over the blackened flesh that had been their queen, making an effort to wrap her in it. Then they lifted her and carried her into the woods. Curious, Kinvara followed at a distance. Sansa led the men to the greatest of the nearby trees, and directed them to dig a hole in the snow. Once they had hit the frozen earth, the body was placed within and covered with snow. After this was done, branches were broken off of other trees to be placed against the one with the body.

While the men worked, Kinvara approached Sansa.

“You are burying her in the snow?”

“The Baratheons burn their dead,” she answered, “but those of the Reach are buried. When spring comes any who see the branches and the markings carved into the tree will know a body lies here. If we never return, they will find her and give her a proper burial.”

Kinvara watched as the men worked. “I can give her the last rites, if you wish?”

“I think you’ve done enough.” One of the men said.

Sansa stepped forward, boots crunching in the snow, to stand at the edge of the makeshift-grave. “In the North, we sing to those who are dead. I am not an expert on burial customs in the Reach-”

“No, go on then.” Another of them sai, leaning on his shovel. “She was our queen. She deserves to be honored.”

Sansa faltered for only a moment, lingering on the line between frightened girl and Lady Stark. Then she lifted her chin and sang as if to the forest itself. The men fell silent and still, and although Sansa chose words belonging to Selyse’s own gods, Kinvara thought that perhaps the gods of the weirwoods were watching their daughter beseech their protection for this foreign queen.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,   
Save our sons from war, we pray.   
Stay the swords and stay the arrows,   
Let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,   
Help our daughters through this fray.   
Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,   
Teach us all a kinder way.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy,   
Save our sons from war, we pray.   
Stay the swords and stay the arrows,   
Let them know a better day.”


	48. The Great Grass Sea III

Irri’s wedding dress was a leather so pale it was almost white. 

The buck had been killed in the Forest of Qohor by a young Dothraki rider, and gifted to Daenerys as tribute. It had been hand-made by the finest craftswomen of Dany’s  _ khalasar. _ It had bell sleeves cut off at the elbow, and leather fringe reaching to the wrist from there. There was also a fringe at the bottom of the dress, and it was secured at the waist by a dark brown belt. 

After she bathed in the lake, Daenerys and Jhiqui helped to dress her in it. Jhiqui had brought slippers of the finest white doeskin and Dany gifted her a necklace made of white bone and blue lapis beads. Irri normally wore her hair in long braids, but it was traditional for women of the Dothraki to have loose hair. For her wedding day, Dany brushed her black hair until it shone. Her father had once been a  _ khal _ , but today Irri wore a blue dragon on her dress.

There were no weirwoods or septons in the Free Cities, so Jorah had agreed upon a Dothraki wedding. Jhiqui stood with Irri, and Dany’s bloodriders stood with Jorah. As  _ khal _ , Daenerys oversaw the ceremony. The drums beat out their song as Dany spoke the sacred words and wrapped them together in a single blanket. 

Afterward the women danced and every Dothraki within Dany’s massive  _ khalasar _ feasted. It was not hers to forbid them their ancient traditions, and so the riders lay with the women under the open sky and fought amongst themselves. There were at least two deaths that Dany witnessed with her own eyes, but Irri was so pleased that she said nothing. She did notice that one of the dancers had turned away a rider, and she sent Jhogo to insure that he understood that her refusal was final.

When at last it was time to bring gifts to the couple, Dany came to them first. “I wish you both great happiness on your wedding day.” She told them. 

Irri rose from her seat and hugged her tight. “ _ Khaleesi _ , you have made me the happiest woman in the world.”

“You are my dearest friend,” Dany let go to look into her face, “There is no gift that I can give that compares to the dragon eggs I was given, but if a dragon is a gift for a Targaryen then a Dothraki must have horses.”

Ser Jorah’s horse had come from Drogo’s herds; payment for saving Dany from the wineseller. It was a magnificent creature, a true Dothraki charger, and among the finest horses within her  _ khalasar _ . The mare Irri rode had been from his herds as well, after they had become Dany’s, and was a horse suited for a  _ Khaleesi _ . A foal was led forward, long-legged and curious. He was the result of breeding her silver.

Irri touched the colt’s nose, admiring his shining coat. Saddlebags were draped over his back, and when Irri looked inside she brought out silks from the Jade Sea, so fine that they cost more gold than most men saw in their life. They would make fine gowns or bed silks, but more importantly if Irri ever wished for gold she could sell them and live forever on the bounty. 

Next she went to Jorah, and one of the Unsullied carried a chest to lay before him. He opened it to find neatly stacked gold bars. Enough to purchase the manse of Lynesse’s merchant if he so desired, but resting gently atop the gold were three dragonscales. When he looked up to her, Dany smiled. “Once you saved my eggs from Viserys’ hands when he wanted to sell them. Now you have a part of them.”

“ _ Khaleesi _ , these are worth more than any stone egg.” Her bear had ever looked after her, as he did now. He had feared to leave her guard and now he feared she was giving too much away.

“Sell them and buy yourself a home, keep them and every lord in Westeros will come to see them in your halls.” 

Jorah hesitated, looking back down at the chest. “I can’t-”

“You can.” Dany stepped forward to embrace him. “Be happy, my friend.”

~oOo~

In the morning, Kinvara accompanied Melisandre to Stannis tent.

The guards said nothing as she entered the tent, approaching him as he secured his armor. “The Lord of Light has made good on his promise, my King. His fires have melted the snows away. The way ahead if clear.” Melisandre was smiling. She would not be for long.

“We ride for Winterfell.” He said.

“And you will take it.” She stepped close to him. “The Lord has shown me Bolton banners burning. You will recieve what is yours by right.”

As Melisandre placed a hand on his chest, he turned away from her and left the tent. The younger priestess froze for a moment, surprised. Then she hurried after him. Kinvara followed at a more sedate pace. There was yet time. As she caught up with the pair, a soldier approached. “Your Grace!”

“Prepare to form up.” Stannis ordered. 

“Your Grace.” The man insisted. Stannis stopped to look at him, and the renewed smile slowly slid from Melisandre’s face.

“Tell me.” 

He was an old man, and battle-hardened. “The men. Many deserted before dawn.”

“How many?”

“Nearly a third.” Melisandre’s face changed as he spoke. “All the sellswords with all the horses.”

Stannis was silent. He looked to Melisandre, but she had closed her eyes. Perhaps she thought not to see the defeat that had fallen upon them. Kinvara had seen it in her fires. There had been another vision as well, but the false queen would never have made it to Winterfell. It might have been the Lord’s vengeance against those who dared take his chosen’s title, but it might have been the foolishness of his servants as well.

“It would have happened if you burned the girl as well,” she said. “I told you. A sacrifice may have stopped the snow, but this army was never meant to take Winterfell.”

“What do you suggest we do, then?” Stannis demanded. Kinvara did not flinch. He would not harm her. She would have seen it in the flames.


	49. Tyrosh V

As dusk fell over Tyrosh, Daenerys ventured down from her manse and to the temple of the Red God.

She was dressed simply, in a blue gown with dagged sleeves and a delicate silver belt. She was a sharp contrast to the red priests in their red robes, but not a one said a word about it. A young initiate met her at the entrance to the temple, greeting her with a low bow. They saw her into the inner sanctum of the temple, where Moqorro awaited her.

In the darkness of the temple a brazier burned bright and hot. Moqorro stood before it, his scarlet robes visible only in the flickering light of the flames. As she came to the fire, he spoke. “ _ Valar morghulis _ .”

“ _ Valar dohaeris _ ,” she returned.

“Have you come to look in the fires, Queen Daenerys?”

The flame cracked, sending a shower of sparks over the edge. They fell against Moqorro’s robes, but he did not flinch away. More were cast over Daenerys, but she hardly felt the heat. Dany stepped closer to the fire. “What do you see?”

He was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the fire. At last he turned his dark eyes to her. “R’hllor speaks in a language that few understand. One of flame and heat, smoke and ash. What do you see, Dragonmother?”

“Burning logs,” she answered, “hot metal.”

“Look deeper. Breathe deeper. Rest yourself in the flames.”

It was not dragonfire, but it was still hot enough to burn bones and melt flesh. The logs shifted as they were burned through, and the light they produced flickered through the darkness. At their edges, the shadows danced on the walls. Dany watched, remembering Mirri Maz Durr’s tent. 

“Fire can heal or harm, create or destroy. Some see clear images, others only shapes in shadows. Hints of what is to come. What do you see?”

“I see fire.” Dany said again. “Light and heat.”

Moqorro watched her face. “What do you want to see, Dragonmother?”

She did not like the answer that came to the tip of her tongue.

“I want to see my enemies.” Daenerys said.

One of the logs lost its grip on the others. It split in two and fell deeper into the flames. Dany’s eyes caught on the newly-created pyramid of wood. The fire washed over it, and underneath a scattering of ash was visible. It swirled in the vortex of the fire, the ashes washing over the metal basin at the bottom… and moving

Thousands upon thousands of men covered a dusty plain before a red-walled city. The tramp of their feet echoed over the field. A shadow passed over the field, so large it blocked out the sun. Fire rolled across the men, a wall as thick as a sandstorm. The men looked like Unsullied, with high helms and spears, but there were far too many. Then she caught sight of one of their serjeants, in an iron halfhelm with a horsehair crest atop it. Somewhere above him, a dragon shrieked a warbling cry.

And Daenerys was standing in the temple of a fire god, in blackness, her hand inside the blazing heat of a fire enclosed in a brazier. Moqorro’s hand was wrapped tightly around her arm, pulling her back. He looked down at her hand, her untouched skin, with great, wide eyes. “I saw Astapor.” She said.

He let go of her, watching carefully as Dany withdrew her hand and rubbed it. Her skin was still fiercely hot, but unburnt. “And New Ghis.” He confirmed.

“Is that how you see?” Dany asked. “The fires show you what you seek?”

“Sometimes the Lord of Light answers us,” Moqorro said, watching her with an odd expression on his face. “And sometimes he does not.”

Dany took a step back, away from the fire. “I must go.”

Outside of the temple, night had fallen over the city. Tyrosh’s harbor was full of ships, and her streets heavy with merchants and sailors. Most of the ships brought goods or sought them, for trade had again blossomed between Daenerys’ burgeoning empire and the rest of the world. Where in the world could you purchase sweet Volantene beets except for Volantis? What city could you visit that would sell finer perfumes than Lys? Would stargazing in the Jade Sea stop because Myr no longer had slaves? Did purple fabric go out of style simply because the dragon had come to Tyrosh? No, trade had resumed, and quickly. 

She wove through the crowds, Mossador and his men at her heels. Her manse was within walking distance of the temple, but it was not a short journey. On the way down, Dany had enjoyed the gentle breeze and visited with the people. Now she hurried back up the stone path, careful not to seem worried. When a woman reached out to her, she stopped and spoke to her gently. 

As they arrived at the gates, Dany looked behind her. “ _ Summon my advisors to the counsel room, please.”  _ She, Ser Barristan, and Mossador continued on, up the winding stairs. A number of the others broke off to find her people. 

Nymeria and Grey Worm came from the training yard, him dusty and her with blades at her belt. Ser Jorah had spent most of the evening in the harbor, but now he entered the room with Aggo and they took up a position at the table together. Varys entered without an Unsullied guard, but that hardly surprised her. Oberyn was one of the last to arrive, but his seat next to Dany had been left clear. 

Daenerys did not know quite how to begin. How to tell them that she had seen something in a fire, and now was abandoning them? But then, she did not know how to tell them about the walking dead either. She was struggling to decide what to do when the door opened again, and Tyrion entered the room. He took the seat next to Nymeria, ignoring the eyes of the room on him as only a Lannister could. Dany lifted her chin. She was the queen. She did not need their permission. “New Ghis has marched on Astapor.”

The room was silent for a moment. She was about to say something else when Tyrion spoke. “They’re fools. You could overrun them with just the Dothraki on the mainland.”

“How many men?” Nymeria asked.

A breath released from her throat that she didn’t know she was holding. 

(We march south, she had said, and the Starks had spoken against her.)

(I will take Kings Landing, she had said, and Tyrion had spoken against her.)

(Let us make the world a better place, she had said, and Jon had killed her.)

“Galleys from New Ghis and Qarth sail to blockade the harbor, and six iron legions march for Astapor.” Dany answered. “I do not have time for the Dothraki to traverse the continent. The cities will be taken and many within killed before they arrived. I must go.”

The freedmen commanders looked at each other, muttering in High Valyrian between themselves. It was Belos, commander of the Volantene army, who spoke. “ _ You cannot just… go.” _ He made a motion with his hands. _ “We need you here.” _

Taamo, a Lysene captain, agreed quickly, “ _ It is only fear that is keeping the peace. If you go the masters will rise in revolt.” _

“She must go.” Tyrion said, from his place at the back of the room. He spoke truth, but Dany hated that it was from his mouth. “If Volantis or Lys rose in revolt and returned you to chains, she would go to your aid. And now she must go to the aid of the Ghiscari.”

“Six legions is 36,000 men,” Varys noted. “It is quite a lot of men for one young dragon.”

“There will not be one dragon,” Oberyn replied. “There will be three. I will go with her.”

If she had a choice in the matter, Daenerys would have left Rhaegal and Oberyn behind in Tyrosh. Yet what Varys said was true. The army of New Ghis and Qarth was too large to risk only Drogon fighting them. “Drogo once dreamed of sacking the cities of the east. Aggo, you will take the strongest riders and the fastest ships, and sail for the Bay of Dragons. And Jhogo will take the swiftest warriors and set off through the Dothraki Sea. The rest of the Dothraki must remain in the Disputed Lands. Rakharo will lead them in my absence.

“I want five thousand men and a sizeable fleet stationed in each city to keep the peace. Each commander will be in charge of his men, but all of you will answer to Ser Jorah in my stead.”

The room at large paused. Jorah said, “ _ Khaleesi?” _

She turned to look at him. “While I am gone, all that is mine will be yours. My kingsguard, my armies, and my fleet. Do with them what I would have done.” Dany looked around the table. “If I do not return, you are to follow Ser Jorah as you would have followed me.”

“And what of Westeros?” Lucerys asked.

“I will speak with Ser Jorah of Westeros.”

~oOo~

That night, dinner was grilled swordfish topped with lemon and kabobs of lamb, tomato, and onion. Dany invited Jorah to eat with her, and sent even the servants from her table. 

“You will think I am mad when we are done,” she told him, by way of greeting. 

“I watched you walk into Drogo’s pyre and not burn,” Jorah sat across from her, and poured himself a glass of red wine. He would need it before the night was done. “How could I think you are mad? Sooner the world would be, before you.”

“There are many legends in the Seven Kingdoms, my bear. Tell me of the White Walkers of the North.” Dany bid. 

Jorah looked at her, unsure of the question. He likely thought she had brought him here to discuss strategy, not fairytales. Still, he answered her. “Thousands of years ago, before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea and the Rhoynar fled Valyria, before Valyria was even a kingdom, was the Long Night. The darkness lasted a generation, and kings and smallfolk alike died of the cold and endless winter that was like none before it and none since. 

“It was in this cold that the White Walkers came for the first time. These were cold things that hated fire and the touch of the sun, and hunted every creature yet living. They rode dead horses and led hosts of the slain. In the darkness they swept over castles and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score. The White Walkers hunted men through the frozen forests, and women smothered their children in their beds rather than see them fed to the Walkers. 

“Now in those days, the First Men lived in Westeros, and they had taken their lands from the Children of the Forest. But here and there, in the deep woods and the hollow hills, the children still lived with their weirwoods. As death swept over all men, the last hero hoped that their magics could kill what all the armies of men could not, and he sought out the Children. 

“He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years upon years he searched and despaired of finding those he sought. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog. His sword froze so hard the blade shattered. And the White Walkers smelled the blood in his veins and came stalking up his trail riding packs of ice spiders as big as hounds.

“But against all odds, he reached the Children. With them, he founded the Night’s Watch and won the Battle for the Dawn. He broke the endless winter, killed the servants of the White Walkers, and sent them fleeing back into the Far North.”

When he was done, he looked at her for an answer. She placed her wine on the table. “Do you believe these tales, Ser Jorah?”

He paused, as if considering his answer. “It matters little,  _ Khaleesi _ . Even if the story is true neither the White Walkers nor the Children have been seen in centuries.”

“And House Stark? Tell me of them.” Dany ate part of her fish as she waited.

“After the Long Night, Bran the Builder, the founder of House Stark, built the Wall with the help of the Children and the giants, it is said.” Jorah answered. “Eddard Stark I have told you of, but he was executed by Joffrey Baratheon. His eldest son, Robb, named himself King in the North and marched on Kings Landing. He and his mother, Catelyn Tully, were murdered by Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey at Lady Catelyn’s brother’s wedding.

“The eldest girl, Sansa Stark, had been betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon. He set her aside for Margaery Tyrell. She was wed to Tyrion Lannister, and according to him both he and her were framed for the murder of Joffrey, but no one has seen her since. W-”

“Sansa Stark is in the Vale. She was spirited from Kings Landing by Petyr Baelish, because he had loved her mother.” Daenerys said. 

Jorah stared at her for a moment, surprised. His next words seemed more a question than a statement. “The younger girl, Arya, is said to have vanished from Kings Landing.”

“She is in Essos now.” Dany supplied.

“The two younger boys, Bran and Rickon, were killed by Theon Greyjoy, who had been a ward of their father.”

“They are not dead.” Jorah watched her carefully as she spoke. “Bran Stark is Beyond the Wall with the Children of the Forest, and Rickon Stark is a guest of House Umber. I have seen them turning him over to Ramsay Bolton.”

“Ramsay…? Roose Bolton’s bastard son?”

“The very same.” Dany set her fork aside and met Ser Jorah’s eyes. “Am I your queen, Ser Jorah?”

“Until I take my last breath.” He swore. Dany had asked him too often, she thought. He had followed Viserys, and Viserys was dead. All that was his is now hers. But sometimes she had to hear it to believe it.

She said, “The White Walkers march south this day. 

“Night’s Watchmen died Beyond the Wall. They were brought back for a proper burial by their brothers, and they rose again. One tried to kill your father, and was only killed when Jon Snow set it afire. Your father then led a ranging to investigate, and at the First of the First Men he fought the wights, the risen dead, the servants of the White Walkers. They killed three hundred men.”

“My father?” Jorah asked, uncertain.

“He was killed. Not by the White Walkers, but by a mutiny.” Jon had mourned the man, and even if he had not, how could Dany forget the fate of Jorah’s father? “I’m sorry.”

Jorah was silent for a moment. “Is there more?”

“Samwell Tarly, a man of the Watch, fought a White Walker and killed it with a dagger of dragonglass. They can only be killed by dragonglass, and Valyrian steel, and fire. Except for their master. He cannot be killed by fire.”

“Who is their master?”

“They call him the Night King.” Dany answered. “The Children of the Forest made the White Walkers, you see, but they only made one. After he was created he made more of his kind, and they created wights. If you kill a White Walker, all the wights it created die. And if you kill the Night King, they all die.”

“Then we must kill the Night King.”

“You believe me?” Dany had not expected him to believe her, but if she died someone must know the truth. It could not be found out through trial and error again.

“I watched you hatch dragons.” Jorah answered. “Why would I not believe you?”

She did not have an answer for that. “If I die, you must take every man who will accompany you and go to the Wall.” Dany told him. “You must promise me, Jorah.”

“Anything.”

“And if my dragons survive and I do not, you must ensure that they do not go Beyond the Wall. The White Walkers have ice spears, and they will kill them. They will use them to bring down the Wall.” Dany took the wine back up, and refilled her glass. “Do not trust Cersei Lannister. She will never fight beside you and will never agree to peace.”

Jorah had crossed the Dothraki Sea and the Red Waste with her. He had defied Viserys and the Dosh Khaleen for her. And he had healed his greyscale and returned to her service. In his last moments he had fought for her and died for her. Some nights she still dreamed of his death, of weeping in the snow over his body as it grew colder. While Jon Snow and his Starks had clung to each other and wept for joy, Dany had cried alone in the cold until Grey Worm found her and carried Jorah’s body into the castle.

“And if I die, there is something else you must know. You can never tell anyone, unless I am dead before your eyes, and you have seen my body burned.” 

Daenerys blinked the tears from her eyes, and looked him in the face, and told him.


	50. Valyria

By ship, it was a month and a half journey from Tyrosh to the Bay of Dragons. On a dragon it was fifteen hours. 

Dany woke before the sun. By candlelight she dressed in leather armor and riding leathers, tied her hair back and slung a waterskin over her shoulder. She carried Drogon’s saddle outside to where he slept, draped it over his wing and rubbed his muzzle firmly. He stretched in the cool morning air, rumbled his greeting into her hands.

She secured the saddle over him with steady hands. As she secured the last strap, Irri approached her. From the Dothraki to the Tyroshi, all feared her children, but Irri stepped over his tail and pet his neck as Dany slid from his back. “ _ I brought you a lunch. _ ”

“ _ Thank you.”  _ Irri tucked a tightly wrapped cheesecloth into her hands. Dany tucked it into the saddlebags over her shoulder and reached out for Irri. Tears gathered in Irri’s eyes, and the taller girl hugged her close. 

_ “Come back to us, Khaleesi.” _

Oberyn was greeting Rhaegal behind her. As Irri returned to the warmth of the tents, Dany joined him. Rhaegal nuzzled into her at the touch of her hand. “They still won’t take a saddle?”

“No. I had hoped they would. It will be a long ride.”

“Irri brought us a lunch. I’ll carry it on Drogon.” 

Oberyn nodded. “Perhaps we can stop past Volantis. Let them rest their wings.”

“None of them have ever flown so far before.” Drogon had, perhaps, when his siblings were trapped in Meereen, but when they had flown to the North from Kings Landing they had been larger. “I worry for them.”

“If Rhaegal weakens I will land. Will Viserion land if her siblings want to continue on?”

“I will know if Viserion needs to stop,” Dany promised. The cream and gold dragon was still curled up in a ball, half-asleep. “They are my children.”

~oOo~

When her soul was joined with Drogon’s, Dany could feel Rhaegal and Viserion little more than their brother could. It was still significantly more than human siblings, for Drogon could smell their scales and feel the beat of their wings. When Rhaegal had fallen from the sky Drogon had screamed like it was he who was hit. 

Because she could not feel them, Dany was required to let Drogon fly alone while she checked on them, having secured herself to the saddle. Viserion was dipping down to explore the ocean waves below. They had been flying for over four hours, and the novelty of the trip was still alive within her. Dany settled into her, more uneasily than with Drogon, and Viserion’s mind brushed against hers, anxious. But she did not fight against Dany’s presence.

From Viserion’s eyes she could look into the sea. There was a massive, long creature so far beneath the surface that only the outline of it could be seen. Still, it had garnered Viserion’s interest. It moved like a snake, but if it was a snake it was as wide as Drogon’s chest and massively long. Alarmed at the sight of it, Dany gently bid Viserion to fly higher. Her daughter acquiesced as Dany pressed fear into her mind. While she could have insisted Viserion rise, she would have sank again as soon as Dany left her mind.

Once Viserion was soaring upward, Dany touched Rhaegal’s mind. It had become different after they accepted Oberyn as a rider. Before it had been more primal instinct, all in the moment and little thought of the future or past. Now they reasoned more. Rhaegal would never have flown so low as their sister had, and would have avoided the creature beneath the waves. 

Dany also suspected she knew why no dragon would accept two riders. Beside of Rhaegal’s mind, inside it, there was another presence. Dany’s mind knew intuitively not to touch that presence, and even if she only brushed the outskirts it felt fiercely wrong. And to control Rhaegal while that bond existed, Dany would be forced to fight her way into the other presence’s space. Instead, she only slid over their mind, like she might when she was immersed in Drogon. Rhaegal did not block her, for they trusted her, and Dany knew that they were not too tired to continue.

Satisfied, she sank back into Drogon’s familiar warmth. 

~oOo~

Hour later, just past sunhigh, Rhaegal tilted gently, looking along the coastline. 

Detangling herself from Drogon, Dany reached out to her child. Rhaegal’s wings ached, and their flight was slowing. When she brushed against Viserion’s mind, the golden dragon had caught an updraft and was coasting on it, but she felt the same fatigue. Beneath her, Drogon’s wingbeats had not slowed, but for all that he was the youngest of the three he was still the largest and strongest. Tugging at Viserion, she followed Rhaegal down.

From the air, Dany could make out a bit of the coastline, but there was no true landmark except for a strip of fused stone raised half a foot above the ground that lead into the sea. A dragonroad. They landed just beyond it, the dragons sniffing at each other while Dany and Oberyn stretched their limbs. 

“Where does the road lead?” She asked, kneeling to run her hand over the smooth, black surface.

“To the northeast must be Mantarys,” Oberyn answered, “We will fly into the northernmost tip of the Lands of the Long Summer, beneath the city.”

“The dragons will see us through,” Dany said. From her saddlebag she brought out the cheesecloth. Inside, Irri had packed them herb bread, dried apples and prunes, uncured beef sausage, and hard cheese. It was more than Dany would have thought of or asked for. 

As they split the food, seated on the black stone, the dragons ventured into the sea. Drogon waded in far enough that when he lay on his side the water lapped over his wings. Viserion and Rhaegal splashed each other in the shallows, which would be over Dany’s head. Viserion went further out, until she was swimming, while Rhaegal settled for attempting to set the sea aflame. 

When they had finished eating, Dany sent for Viserion first. She was the smallest of the three, but she popped up from the waves with a small fish in her jaws. In great, sharp bites she ate it. Rhaegal shifted their wing so Oberyn could climb it, while Drogon shook the water from his scales and sprang to the shore with one great leap, nuzzling at Dany as she used his spines to climb into the saddle.

~oOo~

The Red City was bruised and battered, but Astapor’s walls still stood.

Outside were camped the legions of New Ghis, and the harbor was full of their ships mingled with those of Qarth. As far as Dany could see, small campfires littered the outside of the city. New Ghis’ army. In front of the main forces siege equipment was arranged, and these were the cause of the heavy damage to the walls. 

Daenerys did not know if she should be pleased that they had not set upon Yunkai and Meereen, or worried at the sheer number of men they must fight at one time.

Her dragons had been lost to her before. It made her wary. Even hidden by darkness, she took no chances. She prompted Viserion, and the dragons flew so high that no one would be able to make out their forms even in the daylight, and then landed behind the city walls. Astapor was heavily populated, but still had those massive empty plazas that had once held slaves, and had slowly become marketplaces. It was in one of these they landed.

She climbed from Drogon’s back, and began to tug at the leather straps to remove his saddle. After it was loosened, she draped the saddlebag over her shoulders. Then Dany released the saddle and dropped to the ground to collect it. As she pulled the saddle from Drogon’s back, Stalwart Shield arrived with a small guard of Unsullied. The guards had no fear of them; there was no one else who would arrive on a dragon. When she turned to find him standing behind her, Dany smiled. “ _ Well met, Stalwart Shield.” _

Unsullied rarely showed emotion, but a grim smile touched his mouth then, at the sight of unexpected salvation before him and his name on the queen’s lips. “ _ The honor is ours, Daenerys Stormborn.” _


	51. Astapor II

By nightfall they had arrived.

From the Haunted Forest was Tormund Giantsbane, a broad-chested man with ginger hair and heavy ringmail led some five thousand wildling raiders and spearwives. They were met by scouts on the outskirts of the camp, and while the remainder of the warriors waited, Giantsbane, two of his sons, a white wolf, and a single black brother came to speak with Stannis.

“When I last spoke to you, you had decided to remain at the Wall with Jon Snow.” Stannis said. 

“And the last time I saw you, you had decided Winterfell was more important than the White Walkers.” Tormund strode up to the king. As the guards braced for a fight, nervous of the wildlings, he stopped. Several feet away from Stannis he reached into his furs and withdrew a white letter. “After you left, this came. We thought: it’s time enough that the kneeler should have reached the castle and taken it. So we came to see.”

Stannis took the letter and looked it over. There were still scraps of pink sealing wax upon it. After he had looked at it once, he read it aloud. “Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed in seven days of battle. I have his magic sword. 

“Your false king's friends are dead. Their heads upon the walls of Winterfell. Come see them, bastard. Your false king lied, and so did you. You swore an oath to take no part in the affairs of the realm. Instead you stole my bride from me.

“I will have my bride back. And I want my Reek. Send them to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your black crows. Keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard's heart and eat it.

“Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Scion of Winterfell.”

Tormund nodded. “We’d thought that if you hadn’t killed the bastard you’d at least have weakened him. Finish him off, take the castle for our women and children during the winter. 

“Where is Jon Snow?” Stannis asked, looking at the wildling. “I offered him a lordship and he refused me. Now you come without him.”

The wildling looked to the black brother. Even in the wool and mail and boiled leather of the Night's Watch he was pretty as a girl with his dark eyes, soft skin, and raven's ringlets. Satin, he was called. He knelt beside the sled Tormund’s sons had carried, and pulled back the thick sheet that covered it, tugging at it sharply. As he pulled it down the face of Jon Snow was revealed. 

Melisandre had said nothing until now. Stannis was still furious at her, and she was shaken. She took a few steps forward and looked down at the body. “I saw him fighting on the walls of Winterfell.” Her voice was low, and she directed her words to no one.

“Well, he won’t be doing that now, will he?” Tormund said.

“We brought him to bury him in Winterfell, like he wanted.” Satin added. 

Tormund scowled at him. “The letter brought us here. And he didn’t rise in the night. None of us have, south of your Wall. So there was no harm. A body won’t rot in this weather.”

“If you wish to bury him in Winterfell we must first take Winterfell,” Kinvara said. “Will you aid us in this? Form a common cause?”

“I don’t imagine you’d just hand over the castle to us for our help.” The wildling replied.

“Winterfell belongs to Jon Snow’s sister Sansa.” Stannis answered. It was the same answer Jon Snow had given him when he offered to marry him to Mance Rayder’s daughter and legitimize him as Lord Stark.

“Will you help us take it for her? Certainly your women and children can shelter there as well.” Kinvara looked to Stannis, who nodded bruskly. They were of one cause, he and the wildlings. That against the endless night.

“Shelter is shelter.” Tormund shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to us who holds the castle so long as our people are safe. If his sister is anything like he was, she will understand that.”

The men looked at each other. Satin covered Jon Snow’s face with the cloth, and Melisandre moved away from him. Candles cast shadows against the walls, their fire flickering bright, and Kinvara waited for the answer she knew would come.

“Let us talk to the others.” Tormund said, at last. “But if we fight beside you, it doesn’t mean we’re bending the knee. The Free Folk kneel to no one.”

Stannis’ jaw clenched, but he looked down at the sled with Snow’s body atop it and said nothing about kings or thrones. They had few rations, fewer men, and no horses. He needed the wildlings.

~oOo~

The morning after the dragons arrived, two riders on white horses met outside the gates of Astapor.

Daenerys had abandoned her brown Dothraki leathers for soft black trousers. Her hair she pulled back into a simple style which would keep it out of her face even in the plain before Astapor, and she left Drogon’s saddle in the custody of the Unsullied who remained behind. Then she went out to face New Ghis. 

On a black horse rode their general, Oklas na Quaa. He was a tall man with olive skin and dark hair. With him came twenty footsoldiers. Dany had only ten Unsullied and two dragons. Oberyn and Rhaegal remained on the walls with Stalwart Shield, overlooking the parley from the red walls. Viserion she had tried to keep within the city as well, but her daughter was stubborn. She had abandoned both fish and lamb to follow Drogon. It could not hurt, Dany had decided, for her to come to a parley.

Introductions were completed by a footsoldier, and all the while the general stared at Daenerys with a smirk on his face. Once he was finished, the general spoke in the bastard Valyrian the Ghiscari had adopted. “ _ You should have stayed in the Free Cities with your army. Instead, you will flee Slaver’s Bay on foot with your men. Like the Beggar Queen you are.” _

He meant to insult her by reminding her of her brother’s misfortune, but it fell poorly. Dany had had two lifetimes to mourn Viserys, and after he had tried to murder her son besides. She spoke to the man lightly.  _ “I am only a young girl, and know little of the ways of the world, but I am told the parley is to discuss terms of surrender. Not merely to trade insults.” _

He sneered. “ _ The terms are simple. You will abandon Slaver’s Bay and never return. The Unsullied remaining within the city will stay to be sold to the highest bidder. And your dragons will be slaughtered.” _

_ “Perhaps your man did not properly explain to you the situation,”  _ Dany said. Behind her, Drogon crackled, scenting the air.  _ “There is nowhere you can sell slaves. Not anymore. We are here to discuss your surrender. Not mine. I have three adult dragons. You have men small enough for them to eat in one bite.” _

He smiled at her, this Oklas na Quaa. And then he laughed.  _ “Stupid Westerosi whore. I have 40,000 men and you have  _ nothing. _ ” _

There was a sound, distant, like a sword unsheathing, but too short. Metal on metal. Daenerys’ heart stopped in her chest. She did not know if the sickening scrape and thud of a bolt piercing dragonscale was real or imagined until Viserion shrieked behind her. Viserion. Not Rhaegal. Relief rose in her chest, but was overwhelmed immediately by the sound her daughter had made.

She whipped around, jerking her mount’s mouth with her, to find a ballista’s bolt in the white and gold dragon. Dany forgot the reins immediately in favor of making a frantic upward motion with her hands, screaming all the while. “ _ Sōvegon! Sōvegon! Jikagon! Jiōragon hen kesīr!” _

Frightened and bleeding, Viserion launched herself into the air, wings beating violently and every movement making her bleed more. Steaming black blood pouring from the wound and splattered across the ground. Drogon inhaled, fire crackling beneath his scales, and reared back to spray dragonfire over Oklas na Quaa and his men, who had drawn their swords. A second bolt landed at his feet. Had he not moved, it would have hit him. Driven by fear, Dany tripped off her horse. She landed face-first in the dirt and crawled toward the black even as she scrambled to her feet. No sooner had she regained her footing than she flung herself as high atop her son as she could get and forced him to take off even as Drogon worried for her.

They made the air with her hanging off Drogon’s side by his spinal frill. As she sent them higher, her grip beginning to fail, Drogon twisted his neck and got his nose under her, shoving her onto his back forcibly. She did not know how she did not fall off the other side of his shoulders. Secure in her seat at the back of his neck, her heart in her throat, Dany looked down for the first time. 

Beneath her the Unsullied had fled, but were in no danger from the now-dead general and his men. Beyond them, dragonfire rained down on the siege equipment, blowing it to pieces and setting the shards of wood aflame. Those near them died instantly; those further away died screaming. Where the fire did not reach, flaming bits of wood and iron pelted the army. It killed few, but created havoc as men in separate centuries from those aflame collapsed without warning. Rhaegal pulled up, making a tight turn to take out another trebuchet. Oberyn’s aim was precise, practiced over many hours, and the front lines burned. He had likely saved their lives with his quick reaction to the threat.

Fury bubbled in her throat, the likes of which she had not felt in this life. She pushed Drogon toward the army, wild with rage. Above the neatly lined columns of men he released his breath. Together they cut massive swaths of fire through the armies of New Ghis, through the Iron Legions tightly packed to march on her city. Men had fallen before her like this before, but those men had been dead and yet alive. They fell and they burned, and those who the fire did not kill instantly fought on until their bones turned to ash.

These men were alive. Drogon’s fire not only killed by sheer force, it caught those at the outskirts of it in the blistering heat of it and they died cooked in their armor; it terrified those too far away to die, and the army fell into disarray. Soldiers screamed and fled the dragon’s wrath. Some, the eldest ones, stood their ground and aimed arrows up at them. Their only chance was to knock Daenerys from her dragon, they knew, and in their last moments a hail of arrows fell on Drogon’s scales.

Daenerys was not the only one who was angry. Drogon tilted his great body so the arrows landed on his chest and fell away on the wind. They did not dare land, for fear of spears and arrows, and so they burned and burned and burned. On that dry plain before Astapor the grass caught fire, and the wind kicked up, and the army broke before them. Still they went on.

When at last Drogon’s fire was spent, his wings were not. He pulled up, taking them out of range of arrows which might have harmed his mother. She was sobbing and she did not know when she had begun. Clinging to her son’s spines, Daenerys looked down. Once they were high enough he leveled out, soaring over the devastation below. Everywhere the shadow of his wings fell men panicked and trampled their fellows, fleeing in blind fear. 

Three hundred years ago, Loren Lannister, King of the Rock, and the last Gardener king had combined their forces and stood against Aegon the Conqueror south of the Blackwater. It was the only time that Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar were all on the field at once. They had burned the field there and killed 4,000 men in the flames. The line of the Gardeners had been wiped out, and over 10,000 men suffered burns. 

Beneath Drogon’s shadow the field and the camp and the army burned. Men by the hundreds lay as black corpses in the flames, and to the south of the city the entire camp was set aflame. The remainder of New Ghis did not dare come to their aid, for fear of suffering the same fate. Any trebuchets within Dany’s sight were burning towers. She had not noticed during the heat of the moment, but on the plain beneath her the winds were violent.

The fire was so large that it had created a fire cloud, and while it limited Dany’s visibility it also served her well. Made hotter by the winds, the fire spread rapidly, building as it went. If Kinvara were here, she would have said that R’hllor had favored Daenerys, and given her a firestorm. Whatever the truth, the destruction on the field did not die when Drogon could no longer bolster it with his breath.

It grew stronger.


	52. Astapor III

Drogon flew southwest, into the mountains that bordered Astapor. 

They were as dry as the scrublands around the city and red like her bricks. He may have visited them in another life, but never in this one. Still, he moved with certainty, his mother little more than a passenger on his back, clinging to his spines as he flew, tears streaming down her face. In the canyon he had selected, they came across a steep cliff face, with a number of ledges further down. The only way to reach them was to drop from above, killing any man in the fall, or to fly. Birds had taken advantage of this, laying their nests along the cliff wall to keep them safe from predators. 

It was here that Viserion too had landed, out of range of anything save her siblings, or a particularly foolish bird seeking to return to their nest.

When they landed, Dany all but fell off the black scales she had been clinging to, Drogon’s head arching around to press to her side. She landed on her knees, tripped to her feet, and stumbled forward toward her daughter. The bolt had landed in her chest, below her wing joint, near where it had landed in the first battle Drogon had with the Lannisters. But there was no battle here, no soldiers screaming, no Kingslayer on a white horse.

Viserion trilled, and stretched out her neck, and Dany hugged her daughter’s face to her stomach. All language had left her except for High Valyrian, her mother tongue, and it was in this that she comforted the dragon. “ _ Shhh, shhh dear one. Mother’s here, it will be all right now. _ ”

Her golden eyes blinked at Dany as her cream scales dripped blood. “ _ I’m so sorry, Viserion.”  _ Dany told her.  _ “I should have made them come to the gates. I should have gone alone. Forgive me.”  _ Affectionate as always, Viserion rumbled quietly. 

Still weeping, Dany released her muzzle and moved toward her chest, where the bolt lay. She gripped the staff of it tightly, and used her full weight to wrench backwards as smoothly as she could. It squelched terribly and Viserion shrieked, but her brave daughter remained still. After a moment, it gave under Dany’s weight, and she fell backward, still holding onto it. 

Strong arms caught her before she could hit the ground, and in her surprise Dany dropped the bolt. When she looked she found Oberyn behind her, battle-worn but steady. He shifted her forward to stand on her own feet, and Dany turned to cling to him. “ _ She’s hurt. She’s hurt and it’s my fault.” _

“It isn’t your fault.” Oberyn promised, cupping the back of her head with a hand, the other wrapping around her waist to hold her close.

“ _ It is! If I hadn’t brought Viserion with me she would be fine. I should have known better than to trust them.” _ The fury inside her had lasted until Drogon’s fire had weakened, and now she was sobbing, hands fisting on Oberyn’s shirt. “ _ I should have known not to trust slavers.” _

“You are not at fault for their decision to break the parley.” Oberyn repeated. “It is sacred to the gods, yours and theirs. You had no way of knowing.”

“Gods,” Dany brushed her sleeve across her eyes, “What will they do? Are they to kill the men who hurt my daughter?”

“Daenerys, have you seen the field?” He let go of her face to motion to the skies, and when she looked up the clouds were like blood. “Look at the red glow against the clouds! The winds grew from nowhere and made the dragonfire into a storm. Half of the enemy camp has been engulfed. The ships in the harbor are too frightened to continue the fight. Men cower against the red walls of Astapor and beg for mercy to their own gods, and in your name as well.”

She looked back to her daughter. Drogon had folded himself between the cliff face and his sister, offering her the shelter of his wings. Rhaegal’s neck was draped over hers, comforting. When she reached out to touch Viserion’s mind her daughter was hurt and afraid. Her siblings were exhausted after a day-long flight and spending hours burning an army, but only the cream dragon was afraid.

Dany glanced up to the clouds again, and moved toward Drogon. “Let’s get her into the city. She will be safer there.”

“Do you think she can fly?”

“Yes. I will watch her.” she looked up to the smooth span of Drogon’s back. “I’ll ride with you, on Rhaegal.”

He didn’t question her. Dany separated the dragons carefully, sending Drogon to circle above and comforting Viserion with gentle hands. When she climbed on Rhaegal’s back, they waited patiently for Oberyn to join her. Viserion took flight first, Rhaegal close behind her. Drogon flew just below them, keeping an eye out for trouble. As they soared high over the battlefield, Dany looked down through Viserion’s eyes. 

It was as Oberyn had said. Huge spirals of fire stretched into the skies beneath smoke billowing a hundred feet into the air. The camp of the legions of New Ghis had sprawled from the harbor to the northwest to the Worm River gates to the southeast. The dragonfire had begun near the harbor and now spread still. The winds were so violent that they had to fly over them, not through them, for fear of them knocking the dragons off-course.

When they landed in the plaza the city was celebrating, cheering and shouting and dancing in the streets. Even so, no one dared come too near the dragons save the Unsullied that awaited them. Dany scrambled from Rhaegal’s back and approached Viserion. Oberyn spoke to one of the men, and then joined her. Rhaegal and Drogon formed a wall around their sister with their own bodies, but neither of them protested when he approached.

“Your men will block off the square. They don’t think they will have much trouble, all things considered.” He told her. Dany had crouched between Viserion’s arms to see the wound, pressing one hand flat against her scales to determine how deep it was. “Does she need anything?”

“She likes fish. The long silver ones with a white stomach.” The wound was deep, and still wept blood, golden and hot over Dany’s hands. She thought that it might burn anyone else. Viserion would survive, she was sure, but there would be no long flights for her in the near future. Dany struggled to remember her readings about wounds. “And there is a plant. I do not know its name in the Common Tongue. It is short and red, with leaves like many arrowheads connected to each other. The edges of it are jagged and it is fuzzy to the touch.”

“Mackerel, then. What is the plant called in Valyrian?” 

“ _ Zaldrīzes ānogar. _ ”

Oberyn frowned. “Dragon’s blood is almost extinct everywhere except for the Shadowlands beyond Asshai. Its cousin, greenroot, is more plentiful, but if there is any within the city I will find it.”

~oOo~

The parley was held on a still, cold morning half a league from Winterfell.

Stannis had brought twenty men, Kinvara and Melisandre, and Sansa of House Stark. His three thousand men were camped a distance away, but by now scouts would have reported to the Boltons on the number and whereabouts of his forces. From Winterfell, the Boltons rode with flayed man banners flying. Sansa’s sworn shield carried a Stark banner, and one of Stannis’ men a fiery stag.

Barely arrived, Ramsay smiled widely at Sansa. “My beloved. I’ve missed you terribly.”

“Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely,” Roose gave his son a sharp look. Kinvara watched the interaction. She had seen towers fall and daggers pierce skin. What Ramsay Snow was his father did not know. When his son had quieted, Roose continued. “Lord Stannis. We had heard you ranged Beyond the Wall. What brings you to our halls?”

“The Iron Throne is mine.” Stannis replied. “I have come to defend it from the true enemy.”

“Who is the true enemy?” Roose said. “Tommen Baratheon sits the Iron Throne. The realm from the sands of Dorne to the icy Wall stands with him.”

“Our enemy is the cold, and what it brings with it.” Kinvara said. 

“The cold,” Ramsay scoffed. “Are we children to cower from the dark?”

Both men ignored him. Stannis said, “I am the true king. Swear to me, and I will reward you for your loyalty.”

Roose shifted his reins. “Tommen Baratheon is the true king. He has named me Warden of the North. You have stolen my son’s bride. And this reward you speak of? If it is anything like the reward you gave your Hand, I will risk the mercies of the Baratheon boy.”

“I raised a smuggler to Hand of the King. Is that not a sufficient reward?”

“You cut off his fingers. I should like to keep mine.” Roose nodded to Sansa. “Leave the Stark girl in Winterfell where she belongs. Return to the Wall and take the Black. Men will say it is a fitting justice for an uncle who rebelled against his nephew for the sake of a crown.”

Roose and Stannis stayed like that for a long moment. Each staring at the other, neither willing to yield. At last Ramsay gave a bark of laughter. “You don’t have the men, and you don’t have the horses. And you don’t have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter?”

His father silenced him. “We have five thousand men. You have maybe half of that. There doesn’t need to be a battle.”

“In the morning, then.” Stannis tightened his hold on his mare and turned her. Sansa lingered a moment longer, she and Ramsay looking across the field at each other. He was grinning madly, and she was somber. There was a blade tucked into her dress, too thin and fine to be a dagger, but so sharp it could cut a hair in half.

“Sleep well, my lords,” Kinvara’s voice broke Ramsay’s eyes from Sansa. She kept his gaze as she nudged her horse forward. “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a week since I uploaded! Sorry guys! Had an interview and then a hospital visit.


	53. Astapor IV

Oberyn returned, some time later, with a little bundle of food; a waterskin; and a red powder in a small, corked jar. The Unsullied who accompanied him left a wagon twelve meters from the dragons and retreated again, but he ducked under Viserion’s neck and joined Dany under the curve of her neck, against the heat of her scales.

While Dany examined the dragon’s blood, he unwrapped the food. The bundle contained salt fish, hard tack, pine nuts, and honey. She snatched up the honey and gently tipped a bit of the dragon’s blood into the jar. The old books only had consistency and coloration for a guide, so she did the best she could. Once the honey reached the right color she rubbed her hand over Viserion’s cream scales for warning, and then gently applied the substance to the dragon’s wound. The cream dragon rumbled, and rubbed her muzzle hard against her leg, but did not offer any protest.

Afterward, she wiped her hands on the cloth and looked over what Oberyn had brought. It must be late in the day by now, but Dany was not hungry. She took a handful of the pine nuts, and drank deep from the waterskin. When she offered it to Oberyn he wet a cloth with the water and reached out to her face. He ran the cloth down her cheek and when it pulled back it was covered in soot and ash. 

She lifted a hand up to the other side of her face as he worked, and it too came away black. “I didn’t realize-” Dany looked up at the dragons. Where Drogon’s black scales touched Viserion’s side the cream scales were ashy. And although their scales were darker and it was less visible, Rhaegal’s stripes were hidden beneath the same ash. She wiped away tears that had started streaming down her face.

“You should go see a maester. Or whatever passes for one in Astapor.” Oberyn said as he cleaned her, turning the cloth to the other side to continue.

The Graces, Dany would imagine. She shook her head, upsetting his hands. “I can’t leave them. I can’t. I can’t lose them again.” It was only then that she realized her voice was rising with each word. Dany lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I shouldn’t have let her come.”

“You said that a riderless dragon is more at risk.” Oberyn soothed. “If they had attacked you while Drogon remained in the city he would have gone to you. You did the best you could.”

“I should have known better. I should have done better!” Dany insisted. “I knew. I’ve seen-” She rubbed her eye, spreading ash again, but said nothing more. Already she had said too much.

“Whatever you have dreamed, it has not come to pass.” He let Dany take the cloth and clean her eye, and although she suspected she had only succeeded in smearing it more he remained solemn. 

“It has.” Dany looked up at him. His eyes watched her carefully. Unreasonable anger bubbled up within her. “You don’t believe me. You think I’m mad.”

“I did not say that.” 

“But you think it.”

“You are my queen,” Oberyn repeated, Dany stiffening at the words. “It does not matter if I believe you or not. Your commands are mine to fulfill, not question.” He smiled then, the flickering of a grin across his face. “And I do not know if I believe you or not. You have not told me anything yet.”

Oberyn was the closest kin that Dany had in this world. He was bonded with one of her children, and he had slept in her bed. And beyond the blood of Naerys he was also her brother by marriage. Before she could think better of it, she said, “You know I walked into Khal Drogo’s pyre.”

“Yes. I have heard the story from a dozen mouths.” Every one of the little  _ khalasar _ that had seen it had been eager to spread the word. Often it earned them a warm meal and a night as the center of attention at the table. “You walked into the fire, and emerged from the ashes with dragons.”

“I walked into the fire. And I rose from it twice.” Dany could not tell from his expression what he thought of her tale. “The first time as a  _ Khaleesi _ with three newborn dragons, and the second time reborn into the world.” She looked away from his face. “In that first life you had died as Tyrion’s champion in a trial by combat, because your opponent was Gregor Clegane.” Dany had to stop so she didn’t stumble over her words. She took a steadying breath. “In that world, Viserion died in the North, and Rhaegal died above Dragonstone.” 

Dany searched for something to tell him. Something Viserys would not have known from his time in the Seven Kingdoms and something that rumor could not tell her. It struck her a moment later. Something a Targaryen should not know. “In Dorne there are few cities, but even the smallest will be partially underground. When Nymeria crossed the Narrow Sea she brought more than ships with her. She brought irrigation. And when Dorne went to war, Ellaria hid your four youngest girls in the qanat beneath Hellholt. Where they had hidden when Rhaenys came to Dorne.”

Oberyn stilled. It was the Dornish’s greatest secret, and Ellaria had only told Daenerys because it would be (had been) the queen’s responsibility to fetch the girls if their mother died. Oberyn’s grandmother’s brother had wed a girl of Blackmont, and his second cousin Manfrey was a grandchild of that union. Manfrey was dead, but he had a grandson of an age to wed Elia Sand, and Dany had been asked to legitimize Elia and make the marriage. 

“Tell me.” Oberyn said.

“Tell you what?” Dany asked, doubtful.

“Everything.”

And so she did. 

~oOo~

In truth, the battle was short lived.

Long before dawn Kinvara mounted her horse and joined the party following Sansa to the woods north of Winterfell. It consisted of Sansa and her sworn shield, Melisandre and Kinvara, and a handful of guards. All were mounted, and they had enough food to carry them to the Wall if Stannis should lose this battle. Stannis had charged Sansa with reaching his daughter and crowning her. Personally, Kinvara thought that Shireen would do better to hide in Braavos, but she had not bothered to share her opinion.

Stannis rode in front of his three thousand Stormlords on a squire’s warhorse. His own had been a magnificent black, the swiftest horse in the camp, and taken by Ser Davos as Shireen’s mount. At the front of his men he dismounted, and drew his sword. On the other end of the field, the Bolton cavalry was prepared for a charge. Ignoring them, the Stag Lord turned to his men.

Against the backdrop of Winterfell, Ramsay Bolton’s dark bay courser galloped back and forth. Hidden by the trees, Kinvara watched as his restlessness grew like water in a pot over a fire. The bastard boy she had seen in her fires was not a strategist. At last his father summoned him to his side. 

With Ramsay secured, Roose gave brief orders to his men. A handful of archers charged Stannis’ men. Several fell to arrows, but they rode on. Less than a stone’s throw away, they shot arrows into the infantry. One man took an arrow, but the remainder were blocked by shields. No sooner had they fired than the Bolton men drove their horses off, back toward their army.

This repeated several times. Some Bolton men fell, and some Stormlords. Yet Stannis’ army did not break ranks. Rather than taking the bait of the riders, they held firm. At any moment their shields could fail, they could take an arrow to the head, or the horses might charge into them rather than merely firing arrows. Still they held rank. These men were battle hardened. Many had joined Stannis rather than Renly originally, and all had fought with him at the Blackwater. The disloyal or the cowards among them had fled back to their homes, accepting the king’s peace. Those that remained stood firm.

On the other side of the battlefield, as their men died, Ramsay and Roose exchanged words, and then Ramsay reined his horse around and put his heels to her. He returned to the horsemen, and shouted over the field. Ramsay led the Bolton horse in their charge. First a mild trot, quickly speeding up until they were in full flight. Stannis’ men braced themselves behind their shields.

There were some 1,500 riders. A number of them fell to Stannis’ archers in the rear of the army. His front lines kept their positions, and formed a wall with their shields overlapping. For all the enthusiasm of their riders, horses were intelligent creatures. Seeing no way through what appeared to them to be a solid wall, they balked. Some of them turned to run along the wall and were cut down by archery. Others skid to a stop, and their riders frantically tried to rein them in before they could be cut down. 

Taking heavy losses, Ramsay pulled back. He reformed the lines, and drove forward again. His results were repeated. The third time most of the horses and men had fallen. Anger rising, he withdrew out of range of their arrows. From the infantry, horns sounded. Ramsay paid them no mind. They charged again, and this time the rear of Stannis army withdrew. The Stormlords were perhaps a hundred yards from the treeline.

They made it before the horses were upon them. At a full charge, the calvary followed. The sounds of steel upon steel came from the trees, and although the battle could not be seen it was obvious it was occuring. Across the field, Roose took renewed interest in the battle. The horns stopped, and the infantry stood alert. After some time, a single horse emerged from the trees, dragging its dead rider in one stirrup. 

Mood dark, Roose rallied his men and began to march. A battle still raged inside the forest, but nothing was visible. His infantry moved in, and disappeared into the greenery. Their advance only added to the sounds on the battlefield. Screaming and shouting and the clash of sword upon shield, the din seeming to great for the men that had been on the field. After some time, the noise of war began to die down. 

Men emerged from the forest. Some on foot, others on horse. Bolton men. Their banners were gone, but they wore Bolton armor and the horses they rode had flayed men on their blankets. The horsemen regrouped once more, and rode toward the castle. The gates were opened unto them, and once they had vanished inside Kinvara's party waited, breathless, to see if they would be fleeing north or if trickery had won what force could not.


	54. Astapor V

Come morning, Daenerys left Oberyn to watch the dragons and went into the Unsullied’s pyramid. She bathed, leaving the water black and cloudy, and summoned an Astapori healer. 

The woman was old and hunched. She had dark amber skin and wiry red hair of the Ghiscari, but she also bore a slave mark of the Free Cities upon her face. Her name was Razmaga, and she addressed Dany as ‘ _ Mhysa _ ’. With gentle hands and clever eyes, she examined Dany from the scrape on her neck to her bruised thighs to the healed arrow wound on her calf. Once she was done, she assisted Dany into a silvery silk dress with a low neckline and feathery sleeves.

“ _ Your legs are bruised, but not burned. I am surprised.” _

Dany smiled at her. “ _ They call me the Unburnt.” _

Razmaga laughed at her words. “ _ So they do. I will give you a salve for the bruises. The rest of your injuries are minor, and will heal on their own. There is one thing I wanted to mention, though.” She _ stepped close to Dany. So close it was uncomfortable. And she spoke in a low voice, in the Valyrian of Volantis. “ _ When did you last bleed, Mhysa?” _

She did not know. Why would she count when she could have no child?  _ “Tyrosh, I think. Before I entered the city. That was… three months ago?” _

The old woman nodded. She touched one hand to Dany’s belly.  _ “You are pregnant, Mhysa. You will have a babe in... six or seven months.”  _

Dany touched her flat stomach. She couldn’t get pregnant? The last time she had a baby in her womb she had died, and the babe’s life had been traded for her own. 

Oblivious, the woman bustled over to her bag. “ _ I have a tonic for you here. Be gentle with yourself for the next few months. Until the fourth month the child is not firmly established. And at nine months it can easily be jostled from the womb.” _ Her smile was merry.  _ “I have never served a dragonrider before, but I have served a noblewoman and many peasant women.  _

_ “Do not eat salty things, or parsley. And never eat too much. Have small meals often, of things easy to eat. Chicken is good. And things like partridge, blackbirds, and lamb. Drink no wine that is not cut with water.” _ The old woman frowned at Dany, then.  _ “And, if you can, do things that keep you calm and bring you joy. Keep your clothes clean, and sweet-smelling things about you. Remain out of the sun. If you can.” _

She pressed the corked jar into Dany’s hand.  _ “Take this.” _

_ “Are,” _ Dany looked down to her stomach, “ _ Are you certain?” _

_ “It is the least I can do.”  _ She replied. 

Dany shook her head. _ “No, not that. Thank you.I will make sure you are paid for it. Are you certain I am pregnant? _ ”

_ “I was once slave to a healer. I served as a midwife for many years.” _ The woman said.  _ “I would have been severely punished if I was not sure.” _

She felt as though she owed her an explanation.  _ “I was told I would never bear a living child.”  _

_ ”Whoever told you that was cruel. You did not deserve to be told such a thing.” _ The old woman touched the hand that Dany had over her stomach. _ “And it is not true. You are mother to us all. This one will be our brother or sister.” _

~oOo~

As they crossed into Winterfell’s courtyard, Stormlords in Bolton armor cutting down flayed men banners as they passed underneath, Sansa’s gaze followed the falling sigils.

Already others worked to replace them with grey wolves on a white field. More men approached to take Theon Greyjoy from the soldiers with them and escort him to Winterfell’s cells. Melisandre handed her horse over to one of the men and retreated inside the castle, her heavy red shawl drawn around her. 

Kinvara watched as Sansa looked about the courtyard. A small number of prisoners were being held in the center of the yard, several more being herded through the gate even now. Stannis was nowhere to be seen. In the center of the men stood a short, plump girl with reddish-brown hair. Walda Bolton couldn’t have been more than three years older than Sansa, and her belly was heavy with child.

For a moment, Sansa sat atop her white mare and stared. Then she dismounted, leaving the horse’s reins trailing on the ground, and moved toward the prisoners. The guards watched her approach, and as she stopped before them she said. “Lady Walda, please come with me.”

“King Stannis ordered us to gather all of the Bolton men here.” One of the men said.

Frowning, Sansa looked at him. “I am Lady Stark of Winterfell now. This is my home, and Lady Walda is my bannerman. I’ll not have here standing here in the cold. I’m sure that Lady Brienne is enough to handle a single pregnant woman.”

“Listen to Lady Sansa,” Stannis had emerged from the castle. “Winterfell is hers now.”

“Jon Snow’s sled has arrived,” Tormund said, interrupting anything the man might have said. “Where do you want him.”

Sansa started when she realized the question was aimed at her. She looked up at the burly wildling with wide blue eyes. “We haven’t time for a proper burial now. Arrangements can be made later Can you take him to the crypts?”

“We captured Ramsay Snow alive,” Stannis added, as Tormund headed off to speak to those with him, “The men are still searching the dead for his father. I will leave them to Northern punishment.”

In the face of responsibility, Sansa drew herself up. In an instant, she was no longer the frightened little girl that Stannis had rescued from the snows, but Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter and Lady Catelyn’s, the blood of Winterfell. “Take the rest of these men to the cells. I will see Ramsay in the hall.”

Stannis studied her. Kinvara had only known him for a few weeks, but she thought she saw approval in his gaze. When they entered the castle it was surprisingly warm. Kinvara touched a hand to the wall and found it warmer than the air. Considering this, she joined Sansa at the front of the hall. The younger woman looked to her as she approached. “Have you seen this in your fires?”

“I have seen the Boltons fall,” she confirmed, wondering if Sansa would ask her what to do with her prisoners. Kinvara had a few ideas.

She did not. 

Ramsay was dragged before her by Stannis’ men. Both of his hands were tied behind his back, and he was covered in mud from the field. The wildling who half-carried him dropped him on his face, and when he was jerked upright his nose was bloody. “Beloved wife.” He said.

Instead of responding, Sansa looked at the Stormlord and the wildlings that had carried him in. “Thank you for your aid.

“Ramsay Snow-”

“Bolton,” He struggled against his bonds, but did little more than driving them deeper into his skin. “My name is Ramsay Bolton. I was legitimized by-”

“Tommen Baratheon? Another bastard.” Sansa looked down at the growing rage on her would-be husband’s face and smiled. “Stannis Baratheon is the true king.

“Ramsay Snow. You stand accused of betraying your liege lord Robb Stark, carrying out the burning of Winterfell, flaying Ironborn and Lord Medger Cerwyn and his family. What say you?”

“I flayed enemies of your house.” He snarled.

“My father outlawed flaying. It is not for you to decide upon new punishments, but to carry out the law.” Sansa replied flatly. “And you have admitted to your crimes. In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

“Do you want us to burn him?” The Stormlord asked. His wildling companion eyed him suspiciously. 

“No,” Sansa said, “take him outside the castle and behead him. Then burn his body.

“In the absence of Lord Roose Bolton I will carry out his trial as well. He is accused of treason against his liege lord; the murders of Robb Stark, Lady Catelyn, and the Stark forces; and ordering the burning of Winterfell.” Her voice shook as she spoke of her family’s deaths, but she did not falter. “In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, I sentence him to death.”

Melisandre spoke for the first time since they had risen from their beds, “Lord Roose’s family were once kings. He would make a fine sacrifice to the Lord of Light.”

“King Stannis turned them over to Northern justice.” Sansa replied. “The North does not burn men. Those in the yard you may do with as you please.”

Ramsay was hauled from the floor and shoved forward by the Stormlord. As he was pulled away, Melisandre approached from the rear of the hall. “Where is Jon Snow?”

“In the crypts.” Sansa answered. “The cold will keep him until we can give him a proper burial.”

“I have seen him fighting on the walls of Winterfell,” Melisandre said. 

Sansa turned slightly to consider her. “Jon is dead. I wish he was not, but I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“In the Riverlands I met another red priest.” Melisandre mused, quiet. “Thoros of Myr. He said he had brought a man back to life with the last rite.”

“What is the last rite?” Sansa asked.

“It is the ritual that priestess of R’hllor complete upon the dead.” Kinvara replied, rather than letting Melisandre explain. “We wash the body and hair, cut their hair to make them presentable for death, burn the hair in a fire to ask the god’s favor, and pray over them. In times past, when dragons still lived in the world, it was said to have raised the dead.”

The long pause that followed told her of Sansa’s reluctance, but if to deny it or allow it Kinvara did not know. “If you want to pray over Jon’s body and wash the blood from him, it will not hurt anything.” She said at last. “Only do not harm him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't kept up with my posting and answer-ing review schedule. I live for reviews, honestly, I just don't want to half-answer anyone.
> 
> Had a weekend-long depressive episode after not getting that promotion (for the third time) and a summer cold, but trying to get back into the swing of things now!


	55. Astapor VI

A Yunkai’i ship had brought the news. It carried men from Volantis to aid in securing the Bay of Dragons, and the report of the revolt in Volantis. When it had arrived outside the harbor, one of the galleys from New Ghis had fired upon it. Oberyn had evidently taken offense to that, what with Rhaegal fishing in the harbor at the time, because he had decided to set the entire fleet aflame.

From her place on the high cliffs bordering the sea, Daenerys watched Rhaegal swooping over them like a large pelican. They would spray a stream of fire at an already burning ship, and then wing away. Afterwards, they would plummet down again to repeat the process. Dany had looked down at Viserion, eating a large, long-necked, flippered beast Drogon had pulled from the waters, and felt a sudden rush of fondness for Oberyn.

Now, a few hours later, they were settled in the lovely bedroom the Queen’s Counsel had given to Daenerys, her on the bed with her feet curled under her and Oberyn sitting next to the window that overlooked the garden where Rhaegal slept. He was eyeing the pale Ghiscari wine, but seemed unconvinced of its worthiness. 

Daenerys set the map she was looking at aside with a sigh. Viserion’s wound was healing, but slowly. Every morning Dany treated her injury with dragon’s blood and honey, and no injection had set in. Even so, she didn’t like remaining in the air for longer than fifteen minutes, and her siblings were still hunting for her. Right now her daughter was curled up beside Drogon in the yard, gnawing on the insides of his catch. 

“We can’t go to Volantis.” She pulled the soft blue of her gown down over her feet, and looked over her shoulder at Oberyn. “Viserion cannot make the trip.”

“She could sail.”

“Not unless we stayed with the ship. And we don’t have that long to wait.” Daenerys dropped the map on the bed. “Already many have been slaughtered in the streets.”

Oberyn finally dismissed the Ghiscari wine in favor of a handful of dried apples. He fell forward onto the crisp white sheets of the bed and turned onto his side. Looking up at her, he nodded to the map. “Viserion must stay in Astapor, and you must stay with Viserion. But Rhaegal and I can fly to Volantis and quell the master’s rebellion.”

It was a good plan, but still unsettled her. “And there is still the matter of Qarth.”

“The route to Qarth is on the shore, and has a dozen little cities along the way. Sail with Viserion to Qarth. Part of their fleet is burning in our harbor, they do not have the strength they once did” Oberyn said. “Sail to Qarth, burn something important, and you have your city. You might even meet a few old friends.”

Daenerys laughed low, and smiled down at him. “There are no friends that I wish to meet in Qarth.”

Oberyn met her eyes, his roguish grin firmly in place. “Friends, acquaintances, enemies. There is little difference in the end.”

~oOo~

Sansa might have been a hostage for years, but she could run a household. 

After releasing everyone from the dungeons that did not belong there and imprisoning the Bolton men inside of them, Sansa sent one of the wildling women who had knowledge of healing out with the Bolton maester to help anyone who was injured. Those loyal to the Starks would trust neither of them, but each knew enough to determine if the other was being harmful. Nor would either hesitate to report on the other. She set her own people to making a warm meal for everyone within the castle out of the food stores that they had, and invited everyone, king and smallfolk alike, into the Great Hall to eat. 

She had taken her own pottage and a mug of ale, and retreated to her father’s solar to review food available for the winter. Kinvara joined her, accepting ale, but leaving the food to the men. How long they remained in companionable silence, Sansa looking through the records and Kinvara watching the fire dance in the hearth, she could not have said. It was only the knock of a mailed fist on the door that brought Kinvara from her trance.

The woman-knight went to the door. When she opened it, Stannis awaited her. “Lady Sansa, the king is here.”

Stannis strode across the floor to stand before Sansa, and she rose to her feet to greet him. “Your Grace, how may I be of service?”

“Winterfell is yours, as promised.” Stannis said. “Now you must uphold your duty. Summon the Northern bannermen to swear to you.”

“I have sent ravens to every house,” Sansa promised. “The North will be yours.”

“Good. Have them prepare men to send to the Wall to support the Night’s Watch. There is also the matter of your marriage.” 

Sansa stilled. The smile on her face did not slip, it froze. If Kinvara had not lived for years beyond count it might have escaped her notice. “My marriage? What of it?”

“The best way to secure your position in Winterfell is to marry. You said the Manderlys still have the majority of their men. They may be the best choice. I’ll leave it to you to find a suitable Lord Stark among your bannermen.” Stannis replied, voice flat.

Sansa stood tall before him. A lady’s courtesy straightening her shoulders and strengthening her spine. “I would love to marry the son of a Northern house. I often dreamed of such during my time in Kings Landing. But I fear I cannot.”

The king frowned at her. “Why not?”

“I am already married.” Steady hands reached into the top of her dress and withdrew a golden chain. On the end was a gold ring larger than Sansa’s thumb. It was set with one large ruby, and around it numerous smaller rubies. She showed it to Stannis. “I was wed to Tyrion Lannister in the light of the Seven. My marriage was never annulled.”

“Tyrion Lannister is a kinslayer and a kingslayer, and sentenced to death.” Stannis said. “He is currently somewhere in self-exile in Essos.”

“Be that as it may, unless he is dead or the marriage annulled, I am still married. The High Septon oversaw my marriage, and only he can release me from it.” Sansa tucked the ring back into her gown. “Do not misunderstand me, my King. I do not want to be married to the Imp. His nephew killed my father; his father killed my brother and mother. But neither a lord nor a king can annul a marriage sealed in the Faith.”

“Find a suitable match,” Stannis ordered, “When I sit the Iron Throne I will oversee the annulment and approve of your husband myself.”

“As you command, my King.” Sansa agreed. “I look forward to the day I am released from the Lannisters.”

Stannis left. In their brief time together, Kinvara had learned that he was a brash man. He only said what must be said, and no more. When he had gone, Sansa sat back in her chair. Her hands were shaking. She clasped her mug in both hands and drank deep. Kinvara said nothing. Her knight took up her place at the door again, and silence fell over the room. Yet it was not the same as before.

It was several hours later that Kinvara went to find her room. Sansa had given Stannis the chambers that had belonged to her parents, and taken up her old rooms. Kinvara had been given guest rooms along with Stannis’ officers. They were kept for guests of high honor, but after the Ironborn and the Boltons residing within Winterfell they had been dusty and damaged. Now, under Sansa’s care, they had been renewed.

Somewhere in the castle, Melisandre awaited her. The younger priestess had been haunted by shadows since Selyse Baratheon’s death. Instead of only her Essosi robes, she now wore a thick woollen shawl over a heavy red cloak. Underneath was a Westerosi-made dress. Stannis’ fall and Jon Snow’s death had shaken Melisandre, but Kinvara’s faith had never faltered. The fire had shown her Jon Snow walking the walls of Winterfell. It was not hers to question the Lord.

Kinvara closed the door behind her. A glass candle sat on the nightstand. For years, she had tried and failed to light it. Now it sparked to life under her hands at a mere touch. Closing her eyes, she focused on the flickering flame. The room around her changed and expanded, the walls of Winterfell falling away to dilapidated ruin.

She opened her eyes, and she smiled.

“Good evening, Ser Davos.”

The poor man nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been sitting on an old, ruined bed with his bedroll laid across it. At the sound of her voice he leapt to his feet and reached for the rusted lantern on the bedside table. When he saw her at the outskirts of the lantern light he stilled immediately.

“Lady Kinvara? What-” He stretched out the light to cast it over her fully. “How are you here?”

“I am not.”

Davos took a hesitant step toward her, peering into her face. “Is this a dream? Are you a ghost?”

“No.” She looked about the room. “This is not Castle Black. Where are you?” 

“ We lost our way in the storm. This is Sable Hall.” Davos slowly sat back down. “If you are here, but you aren’t here, what do you want?”

“King Stannis is angry that you stole his daughter in the night,” she answered, “But the storms come again. He will be trapped in Winterfell for a time.”

“It doesn’t matter what he does to me.” Davos watched her carefully as she stepped closer, but didn’t stand. “As long as the princess is safe. That’s what matters.”

“And will she be safe with her father?” Kinvara’s red robes shone in the light. “He wanted to burn her to stop the snows. What happens next time he wants to stop a storm or needs fair winds?”

“What do you want of me?” Davos said, gruff. “Stannis is the king. There is nowhere to take Shireen that he cannot go. No one who can protect her.”

“No.” Kinvara agreed, voice mild. “No one in Westeros.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to join NaNoWriMo again, so I read through this fic in preparation. Got to the end, and something felt off. I have about a dozen chapters pre-written. Expect an update about once a week, or a bit more often.
> 
> Thank you so much for the reviews and for your patience with me! I've read through my notes and am trying to do some catching up. 
> 
> In follow up to one review in particular, the dragons genders. Drogon is male, Viserion is female, and Rhaegal goes by "they."


	56. Qaarth I

Once Daenerys had visited Pyat Pree, a warlock of the Undying.

He had told her that Qarth was the greatest city that ever was or ever would be. Somehow, Dany could not imagine that it held a candle to Valyria in her youth. Even so, the city was beautiful. Surrounded by three thick walls up to fifty feet in height, the triple walls of Qarth were one of the nine wonders made by man. Inside the city, the buildings were brilliantly colorful and decorated elaborately. 

All of this Dany saw from above. Qarth’s harbor was almost empty, but she had sellswords aplenty. For some time they had been distracted by the Dothraki outside the city. But now their attention had fallen to a different matter: the large black dragon over the walls. From his back, Dany watched them panic, their horses scattering before Drogon. And as they panicked, the Dothraki took advantage, overrunning their lines and smashing through their shields.

Drogon’s target was not sellswords. Burn something, Oberyn had said. He meant it in jest, but Daenerys thought it fitting. In the midst of a massive grove of black-barked trees with inky blue leaves sat a tall stone tower. No other buildings stood near. Black tiles covered the palace roof, many fallen or broken; the mortar between the stones was dry and crumbling. It was not what it seemed, she knew. If Dany was hurt that Tyrion had betrayed her for his sister, then she was furious yet at the theft of her young dragons still. And here before her were those that might know the reason of her wrath. All the better. 

Dragonfire sprayed the tower. Hotter and hotter it burned. Everything flammable within the tower caught fire, wood and wool, and flesh besides, and the stone of the tower cracked. Sometime during this, Viserion arrived. She took up a position across from her brother and aided him in raining down flames. All the fury unleashed upon New Ghis was poured out over the House of the Undying. At last the tower glowed, and stone began to fall in rivulets. 

It melted like a candle, the fire reaching the heart of the tower. And as it did, she heard the voices. The voices from that swollen blue heart deep within the sorcerer’s lair. She had expected them, but that did not stifle her fright. They were part whisper and part moan. Some were male and some female; all spoke with the timbre of a child. 

...fire...fire...fire… They said. ...dragons...dragons...dragons…

Daenerys gripped at Drogon’s spines. “ _ Dracarys!” _ She shouted, above the din of flames and melting stone. Drogon drew his neck back and took a breath, exhaling new flames over the tower.

...join us...us...us…

Beyond her, Viserion responded to her call as Drogon did. They increased the intensity of the flames. Daenerys knew that once that heart burned the voices would stop. The Undying would be dead. Still she heard them.

...the cup of ice...the cup of fire…

Drogon’s flame was black shot with red. Viserion’s pale gold with red and orange. Together they combined in a great gust of heat that Dany could feel even from her place on Drogon’s back.

...mother of dragons...child of three…

A little girl shivered violently in the arms of a silver-haired queen, tears gathering in her mother’s eyes. In a place of beauty made of colored marble with pools and trees, a princess kissed a Dornishman. Under a red comet on the Great Grass Sea, a  _ khaleesi _ walked into her husband’s pyre.

...mother of dragons... child of storm... 

Three heads has the dragon. But Rhaegal was not here. Dany pushed her fears away. If Aegon had been one head and Rhaenys another, then it was only Daenerys left. Daenerys and the riders her children chose. Never again would any ride them that they did not wish to ride them. 

... mother of dragons...daughter of death... 

A man with hair as red as sunset lifted a babe from the arms of a woman with silver hair, lying motionless in a bed soaked with blood. Before an Iron Throne under a layer of ash, Jon Snow kissed his lover as he buried a dagger in her heart. In front of Winterfell’s weirwood, under a hail of dragonfire, the Night King melted into red, red blood.

...mother of dragons...slayer of lies…

Drogon beat his wings to maintain his hover. Her hands were on his scales, but she heard her voice as if from far away. “ _ Dracarys!”  _ Northern king or inmortal sorcerers, no one would take her children from her. Never again. Her children responded to her, as they always had. Beneath them the fire grew hotter. The tower began to glow, and the voices grew more frantic.

...mother of dragons...bride of fire…

The violet eyes of a fair babe looked up into the world, wailing as loud as the storm outside, as the midwife wrapped her in a blanket and rubbed her skin. From the ashes of a spent pyre, a girl rose with three newborn dragons clinging to her skin, her children singing to the sky. Grey eyes empty, a man sank to his knees-

And then the Undying were all around her, blue and cold, whispering as they reached for her, but Daenerys’ mount was the Black Dread born again into the world. Drogon shrieked his fury and his mother came back to herself. Dany swept out an arm to break their grip, and the fire shot thirty feet into the air. The blue of their dead bodies turned to red, and the high, thin whispers turned to shrieks. Before her their flesh was crumbling parchment and their bones dry wood. Above the tower blue phantoms writhed and spun. 

Daenerys screamed, “ _ Dracarys!” _

~oOo~

Smalljon Umber was one of the first men to arrive, second only to House Cerwyn in his timing.

When the scouts announced his banners approaching, Sansa had prepared to greet him, but the Umbers had no sooner arrived in the courtyard than they were sneering at the wildlings and demanding Stannis’ attention. As Sansa hurried from the castle, Kinvara followed her.

Their shouting had drawn the king’s attention. Stannis was still scruffy, having not shaved in weeks, and dressed simply. He had been preparing Winterfell for the upcoming war. Walls needed to be rebuilt and equipment must be forged. Sansa was dressed in the colors of House Stark, with a grey dress and a darker grey cloak trimmed in fur. She exited the castle just as they They met the newcomers in the yard together, where Umber hadn’t even bothered to dismount his horse.

“Lord Stannis,” he said, looking down at the man.

“King Stannis. I am my brother’s heir.” Stannis replied, voice flat.

Umber adjuster his grip on his horse’s reins. “The North acknowledged Tommen Baratheon as king.”

“The Boltons saw Cersei Lannister’s bastards as kings,” Sansa said, stepping forward from the crowd. “I am Lady of House Stark now, and I have sworn fealty to King Stannis. My father supported his cause. He is the rightful king.”

“A Lannister ruling Winterfell.” Umber scowled down at her. “Only a southerner would bring wildlings to Winterfell.”

In the mud-trodden yard of her father’s castle, Sansa looked up at him and said. “When I sent for men to take back the castle the Lannisters had stolen from my father after they murdered him, you did not answer my call. Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton murdered your brother, and you bent the knee to him.”

Her voice echoed over the courtyard as she spoke. On the edge of the crowd, she could make out Cley Cerwyn. As Sansa went on his eyes dropped from her face to the ground before him. “House Umber has stood with House Stark for six thousand years. Your father, hostage of House Frey, holds faith. Your ancestors would be ashamed of you.

“My father was murdered by the Lannisters, and House Bolton helped them kill my brother and mother as well. When they took me as a hostage, do you think I had a choice in what they did? But you had a choice. And you chose to serve the men who planned and carried out the Red Wedding.”

Umber’s face had darkened as she spoke. “You were married to the heir of Casterly Rock. All the gold and jewels, did you not want those, before your husband murdered the king?” He demanded. His men made mummers of agreement, but the vast majority remained steadfastly silent. Sansa had shamed them. They might call this man lord, but that was only so long as his father did not return. His father, who had refused to trade his honor for his freedom.. 

“Joffrey beat me.” Sansa told him. “He stripped off my clothes before the court and had his Kingsguard beat me while in full armor.” The courtyard had gone utterly quiet. “He promised he would be merciful, and then he cut off my father’s head and made me look at it. What did you expect me to do, that my father did not?”

Not even Lord Umber dared to argue about Eddard Stark’s honor or discuss his culpability in his own death. Instead of answering, he turned to look at his men and motioned at them. One of them broke from formation to unbar and open the door to the wheelhouse. Two more entered, and with much clanking and shuffling, two prisoners were forced out, into the snow.

One was a tall, lean woman with her hands bound behind her. Her shaggy brown hair hung into her hard face, and instead of wearing a gown she wore heavy furs suited to the cold. The second was shorter than she, and male. His thick auburn hair was fine and curly, and he had eyes of deep blue. Umber said, “I’ve brought a gift for the new king.”

Stannis might have had something to say to that, but before he could speak or Umber could offer any further explanation, Sansa stepped forward. She moved past the horse and toward the wheelhouse. Umber’s eyes followed her. One of the guards of the wheelhouse reached out to stop her, but before he could both Stannis’ Stormlords and her sworn sword had grasped their weapons. 

The boy’s eyes stopped darting about, and focused on her. Wary, but curious, he waited for her to come almost within touching distance before he spoke. “Mother?”

At his side, the wildling woman said. “She’s not your mother. That’s your sister.”

Without taking his eyes from Sansa, he replied in a low tone. “She looks like mother.”

“She should.” The woman confirmed. “Because she’s your sister.”

“Rickon?” Sansa almost whispered, as if afraid that speaking would break the spell and take her brother from her again.

“You look like mother,” he told her.

Sansa nodded, struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “My name is Sansa.”

Finally, she could take it no more. She rushed forward the three steps to hug her little brother, dead and alive again. Rickon’s hands were tied in front of him, and he could not return the gesture. He stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed into her arms. Rickon’s head rested on his sister’s shoulder and he let her hold him. 

“Your Lord Stark,” Umber informed Stannis.

After a moment, Sansa broke away, tugging at the ropes on his hands. Her fingers slipped over the knots, pulling uselessly. She addressed the nearest man, one of Umber’s men. “Give me your dagger.”

He stared at her blankly. Coming to the realization that the men around her would be utterly useless, Sansa turned around to look at Lord Umber, one hand still on Rickon’s wrists. “Let him go. He is your liege lord!”

“They have Shaggydog in a cage,” Rickon told his sister. “I want them to let him go.”

Stannis himself stepped forward, when Umber ignored Sansa in favor of looking to him for instructions. He drew a dagger from his belt, and clasped one hand over the ropes holding Rickon in place. The boy withdrew from him, but he only cut the knot in two with one quick movement. When he turned to the woman beside him, she held up her hands to let him do the same. Sansa turned Rickon’s hands over to see the burns from the ropes.

“The direwolf,” she demanded, still holding her brother’s arms, “where is it?”

“A cage,” Umber replied, sneering. “He almost bit a man’s hand off. If I didn’t need him to prove the boy’s veracity I’d have killed him and kept the pelt.”

Rickon bristled, but Sansa spoke before he could. “Where is it?”

Kinvara could not hear the voice of the Umber man who spoke, but he must have said something. Sansa let go of Rickon, who rubbed his bruised wrists in her wake, and stepped around to the back of the wheelhouse. She stopped there for a moment, then looked back to the man who had spoken. “Where is the key?”

A brief argument took place, and then Umber spoke from his horse. “Give her the key, if she wants it so badly.” He fished something from his belt and threw it toward his men. One of them caught it, fumbling with the leather strap tied around it, and brought it to Sansa.

As she took it from him, the Umber men cleared a circle next to the wheelhouse. With deft hands, Sansa unlocked the cage and threw the lock on the ground. Then she pried open the door. A low whine was heard as she reached in. Her hands came back with a long bit of cloth, and a great black wolf lept from the back of the wheelhouse. He snarled at the men surrounding him, but when Sansa’s hands reached for him he let her pet his head and thick scruff. Once he caught sight of Rickon he headed straight for the boy, his head reaching Rickon’s upper chest. . 

Sansa followed him, to stand beside her brother. The presence of the wolf didn’t seem to concern her, nor did the wolf react to her as he was to the Umber men. “Come inside,” she bid, “there is warm food and I can have a bath drawn for you.”

Umber interrupted her. “We have protected and sheltered the boy since his brother let Winterfell be taken by the Ironborn. I think we are due a reward.”

“You have no right to demand anything,” Sansa’s voice was steady as she looked at Umber. “You took your liege lord as a hostage. If King Stannis had not taken Winterfell, you would have turned him over to the Boltons.”

“Woman-” Umber began, but Sansa marched right over him.

“Do not make demands when you have done us ill. We will speak of this after my brother is settled in his castle.” 

He scowled down at her. “Take him inside, then. I’ll speak with the king about matters of importance.”

She did not care for that either, Kinvara could see, but she cared more for Rickon than for petty bickering. Sansa took his arm and spoke gently to him. When she led him away, the wildling woman was only a few steps behind. 

As they left, Umber dismounted his horse. He handed his reins to one of his men, and approached Stannis. “The girl is a fool.” The man appeared to believe that the king would agree with him. He cast a dark look at the wildlings who were lurking on the outskirts of the courtyard. “I want to discuss these wildlings with you. And control of Winterfell.”

“The wildlings supported House Stark and my cause when you hid in your castle,” Stannis replied. Umber’s face fell. “You and your men will remain in Winterfell for now.”

Stannis left to return to assisting in the rebuilding of the castle. Something far more important both to Stannis and in the grand scheme of things than a bannerman’s treason and petty bickering. Sansa had disappeared with her brother, the liege lord that Umber had put in chains. The rest of the courtyard broke up, leaving Umber and his fifty-odd men standing alone, surrounded by wildlings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise to answer reviews, but it's 5am right now. I'm working on chapter 68 which gets.... Pretty plot revealing, honestly.


	57. Qarth II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys came to Qarth with fire and blood.
> 
> (Daenerys came to Qarth with a fledgling khalasar behind her and infant dragons on her shoulders, a beggar again.)

The House of the Undying burned.

Drogon landed before the Hall of a Thousand Thrones, the seat of the Thirteen, composed of merchant princes and descendants of the ancient kings and queens of Qarth. Once before she had been here. Dany remembered it well. She had made the traditional sacrifice in the Temple of Memory, offered the traditional bribe to the Keeper of the Long List, and sent the traditional persimmon to the Opener of the Door. It had been a labor of weeks. When at last they sent her blue silk slippers, admitting her into their presence, she had nearly wept with relief.

Then she had garbed herself as a Quartheen, in flowing green samite, a belt of black-and-white pearls about her waist, and silvered sandals on her feet. Three of them she had bribed, none of whom had spoken in her favor when she came in front of them. She had pleaded with them for ships and soldiers to retake her father's throne, and they had turned her away. And afterward, when she had burned the Undying, they had threatened her life, and she had fled in fear of their wrath.

Daenerys came to Qarth with fire and blood.

(Daenerys came to Qarth with a fledgling  _ khalasar _ behind her and infant dragons on her shoulders, a beggar again.)

As she landed before the Hall, the Thirteen were gathered outside of it, watching the 22 meter (72 feet) long dragon land in their garden. Under their gaze, Dany released Drogon’s spines and sat up on his back, looking down at the men before her. Even in the heat of dragonfire, she wore sturdy leather armor with strong shoulders and trousers suited for scraping on dragonscales. Her cuirass was detailed in the manner of small scales, and the medallion on the front bore a three-headed dragon. At her side was a finely-made longsword, the hilt formed in the head of a dragon with ruby-red eyes. In her hair hung five little silver bells.

(She came to them in rags, filthy from walking across the Red Waste.)

The Qartheen hated the Dothraki. As Dany climbed from Drogon’s back her bells chimed with every movement. It made her smile, and she did not bother to hide it. Somewhere behind them, stone crumbled. Her boots clicked on the marble as she strode out from under her son’s neck. Every eye of the Thirteen was on her. Pyat Pree was dead, but she knew a number of the men before her.

The Copper King, a tall, bearded man in a golden tunic, had offered to exchange a single ship for a night in her bed. Dany had refused him, and idly imagined how Drogo would have reacted to such an insult to calm her ire. The Silk King, old and grey but undeniably rich, had refused her because the Lannisters were his best customers. She supposed she could understand that, but dearly wanted to see what he would do after she killed most of their line and left him without buyers. The Spice King, plump and balding, had called her a little princess when she had asked for his aid. He needed to save his ships for his trading, he said. Some of the ships burning in Astapor’s harbor were his, and the thought of stripping the remainder of them and turning them over to freedmen pleased her greatly. And Xaro Xhoan Daxos, who had killed her handmaiden and stolen her dragons, while filling her ears with pretty words. He had no property for her to seize, but she would ruin him nonetheless.

But these men have never met her before. And so she smiled, sweet as summerwine, and stepped out from Drogon’s shadow to face them. Dany spoke decent enough Qaathi, but it seemed a concession to use it. She spoke in High Valyrian. “Well met, oh Masters of Qarth. I am Daenerys Stormborn. Queen of what was Slaver’s Bay.” She lifted a hand to indicate Drogon. “Mother of Dragons. Breaker of Chains.

“You attacked my city,” She lowered her hand to her side, but a great many remained in awe of her son. “And now I have returned the favor.”

The Spice King stepped forward, weeping in the manner of the highborn of Qarth. It was considered well-mannered among men such as these. Like her, he spoke in Valyrian. “We are the Thirteen. Rulers of Qarth.”

“You may be the Thirteen, but you are not the rulers of Qarth. I am.” Dany stepped forward to have a better look at him, face impassive. Behind her, Viserion landed several meters from her brother. Drogon turned his massive head to check on her, nuzzling her pale scales gently.

Dany’s eyes never left the man before her. He was flustered, but pushed onward. “I am Mathos Mallarawan.”

_ Little Princess _ she heard. These men had never believed in her, and they never would. She had walked away from Qarth’s slaves once. She would never do so again. Genial, she said, “I am so sorry about your wife.”

He hesitated. “... my wife?”

“She’ll be refusing to wear clothes any day now.” Dany agreed. Perhaps it was cruel to mock a woman who would be cursed by a warlock. That was not Dany’s concern. “A pity, really, she should learn not to insult sorcerers.”

(He will visit Dany in days to come, and ask how she knew what would befall his wife. Daenerys would smile, and tell him that she was no ordinary woman. Her dreams come true.)

With the Spice King flustered, Xaro Xhoan Daxos spoke. “Come into our hall. You are most welcome. I will send for refreshments.”

“My hall.” Dany said. When he only blinked at her, she repeated. “It is my hall.”

She addressed a young man who stood nearby, shirtless and in neatly-made, but simple trousers. “You. What is your name?”

He glanced up from where he knelt. In broken Yunkai’i Valyrian, he answered as best he could. “This one is Aemir.”

_ “Do you speak Qaathi?” _ She asked him, in Qaathi. 

The Thirteen looked between themselves, but Dany ignored them. Still kneeling, the man replied,  _ “I do.” _

_ “Good. Take off your collar.” _ He looked up in earnest then, his surprise overcoming his training. Dany said nothing about it. Instead she found the eyes of another slave, and another, here to serve the Thirteen.  _ “All of you. Go if you wish, no one will stop you. Qarth is no longer a city of slavers. All of you are free. Qarth is mine now, and I own no slaves.” _

Under her gaze, Aemir lifted his hands to the back of his collar. He fumbled for a moment, and then a long, thin pin dropped to the ground behind him. In the yard, with every eye on him, it was loud enough for all of them to hear it as it bounced off the ground and rolled past his feet. Then he pried the collar apart. For several long moments, he stared down at it. As he stood, he was hesitant, but when at last he was on his feet he turned to look at the men who had owned him.

Dany waited. This was not her battle. Aemir looked back down at the collar in his hands. And then he dropped it. It fell to the ground uselessly, and he stepped over it. Moving to the right of Drogon, he walked down the stone pathway that led to the streets. Beyond the walls she could hear the shouts of Dothraki, who had charged through the wall she had burnt down. They would insure that no soldiers remained in the city who would harm the freedmen. Behind him, one of the handmaidens threw her collar away, a certain viciousness in it that Aemir had not had. 

Men stood from their kneeling positions. Women cast aside their collars and fans alike. The casting of slave collars upon the ground was like that of large raindrops. One by one, then in twos and threes, building to large groups, the slaves of the Thirteen abandoned them. Drogon and Viserion paid them no more mind than they did the trees of the garden. None of Daenerys’ children would harm those she did not wish harmed. 

As they left, Dany turned her attention back to the Thirteen. “You own no slaves, and you are not the rulers of this city. Leave my hall.”

“Lovely Queen,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos said, taking a step forward, “you must understand-”

“Do not touch me.” She commanded. Behind her, Drogon snarled and Viserion lifted her head to hiss at them. The merchant froze as if struck. “And if you mean to wax on about rain and slaves, do not.” 

Calm as only a dragonlord could be, Dany approached him. On the front of his tunic was a golden pin in the shape of a snake. Daenerys plucked it from the fabric, the eye of every one of the Thirteen following her. “I know you, Xaro Xhoan Daxos. I have seen your face, your words, your palace, your vault.” Dany pocketed the pin. “There is nothing I can take from you that you have not already lost. Get out.”

She strode past him, into the mass of people between her and the doors to the Hall. The Thirteen parted before her, frightened, tripping over each other in their haste. Dany paid them no more mind than she did the slave collars she trod on as she walked. Humming, Dany summoned her children, and the Thirteen renewed their efforts to escape. With the path now clear, most fled down it to the streets beyond.

They could hear the chaos, but whatever awaited them there was less terrifying than the dragons.

~oOo~

The First Keep had been built long ago.

It was said that Bran the Builder had raised it after the Long Night. He and his fellows had crawled out of the caverns deep beneath Winterfell, where the fire buried deep below had saved them, and for fear of another night like the one before they had chosen to live there. Today the First Keep was abandoned, but for years upon years it was all that had existed of Winterfell. 

Kinvara walked through the ancient lichyard in the shadow of the Keep. One side of it was torn loose and fallen away. Stone and shattered gargoyles lay strewn across the yard, broken into a thousand pieces. The other side was still standing, but in disrepair. Snow fell over it like a blanket, hiding the sharpest parts.

Beyond it lay the crypts that had served the Starks for thousands of years. Their door was ironwood, old and heavy, and once past it she came upon winding spiral stone steps so narrow two men could not walk abreast. Down and down she went, past many levels, until at last she came to a floor with a long line of granite pillars, two by two, between which were entombed the dead of House Stark. 

Robb Stark’s tomb lay empty. No statue stood before it in the likeness of the Young Wolf, and she wondered if anyone yet lived that could carve such a thing. If she looked long enough, Kinvara could see the shape of a wolf’s head on the stone that lay waiting. The lid of the box next to him was ajar, awaiting his father’s bones. Eddard Stark’s statue was finished during the War of the Five Kings, when his son yet lived, but his bones had not made it past the Neck to rest inside them.

Far below, the deeper levels held older Starks. Legend said that Bran the Builder was at the lowest level, in the collapsed catacombs. In the caverns where the First Men had waited out the Long Night. Before his body sat a statue, with a sword across its lap.The same as stood before every Stark tomb. Whatever else they had done, the First Men had taken no chances that his body might raise itself from the dead and return to haunt them.

Closer to her than either the ancients or the latests lords Stark was little Lord Rickon’s place, where she had seen him buried by his siblings. It was uncovered now, and Jon Snow’s body rested within. There was no blood on his skin, only vivid, deep dagger wounds. The hair on his head had been trimmed, and his beard been made neat. A snow white sheet had covered his nakedness once his clothes had been removed, but now it was laid over the side of the stone that enclosed him.

“He will be buried soon.” KInvara said, into the stillness of the long hallway that stretched out before her. 

“I saw him,” Melisandre’s red hair shone in the light of the torch she had placed on the wall when she entered this floor. “He fought the dead on the walls of Winterfell.”

That Melisandre had such a vision Kinvara did not doubt. What it meant she was less sure of. “Yet here he lies.” She came closer to the younger priestess. “Every night you have come here, and prayed over his body. He has not risen. It is not the Lord’s wish for you to breath the fire of life into his body.”

Kinvara had been here before. To honor what would be, and what had never been, she had joined Melisandre in the last rites of Jon Snow. Together they had removed his clothes, the black cloak of the Night’s Watch and the bastard Valyrian sword he carried. His body had been as stiff and frozen then as it was now. With gentle hands and cool water, Melisandre had washed the blood of his wounds from his pale corpse. She had cut his hair short with neat precision, and burned the dark brown strands in the fire they carried with them. Kinvara had watched how her hands shook as she did so.

Over and over, she had said the traditional prayer in the High Valyrian of Snow’s ancestors.. "We ask the Lord to shine his light, and lead a soul out of darkness. We beg the Lord to share his fire, and light a candle that has gone out. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

At last she had run out of breath. When she pressed her lips to his, breathing the fire from her soul to his, he had not moved. Melisandre had fled the crypts, frustrated and failing, but Kinvara had stood and watched. Waited. He had not moved that night, nor any night sense. Yet the next night Melisandre had returned, and Kinvara had followed her. Soon his sister would secure the castle and find the time to bury her brother, and Melisandre would be denied the chance to pray over him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit ahead in writing, and working into my Tyrion chapters now. I think I've sorted out his plotline, but I've been up all night pouring over it.
> 
> I do hope you like my Qarth chapters!


	58. Qarth III

Kinvara was not invited to formal meetings in Winterfell.

Melisandre was invited, and Kinvara was hardly paid a second glance when she trailed her into the room. Not a word had been said against her in all this time. It did not take a clever mind to see the xenophobia among the Westerosi. All it took to be overlooked was wearing the same color of robes and worshiping the same god as the king’s closest advisor. While among the Free Cities there was rivalry, it was not so evident as here. Northerners hated the south, the south hated the Dornish, and these were countrymen. It was hardly surprising that they had not so much as glanced at the troubles of Essos.

Stannis had summoned the Northern lords to Lady Sansa’s - or was it Rickon’s, now? - solar. They had trickled in, one by on; some smiling, some sulking, some snobbish. Little Lyanna Mormont wore mourning colors for a mother killed almost three years ago. Cley Cerwyn, who had watched Ramsay flay his parents and uncle, took up the seat next to Sansa. Still in heavy furs, Smalljon Umber glowered at the room at large from the back of a table entirely too large for such an action. Berena Tallhart, Lady of Hornwood, a dark-haired, regal woman in her late forties, sat next to Lord Cerwyn, and exchanged soft words. Eddara Tallhart, her niece by marriage, sat across from her, between Kinvara and Lady Mormont. 

Sansa often kept the company of the wildlings in her meetings, having become fond of Munda, the daughter of Tormund Giantsbane who was of an age with her, but she was well aware of the high lord’s opinion of those who lived Beyond the Wall. There were no wildlings here. Nor had young Lord Rickon joined them. In his place was Sansa, wearing a thick, dark blue, woollen gown with a white direwolf on her chest. Even so, Kinvara could make out the silver chain around her neck, on which she kept Lord Tyrion’s ring; her only protection against having another husband pushed upon her.

Her father had owned a long, wide map with the most detail of the lands Beyond the Wall south of Castle Black. Stannis had found it, and now it lay across the table before them. Stannis stood over the place where the Far North became a vast white wilderness. “I’ve asked you here because you are the lords of this land. You’ve lived here all your lives, and know it better than any other. I want your advice on our plans.”

He nodded to the eastern part of the map. “I want the grain brought to Winterfell. We’ll use it as a staging area for the army until we’re ready to return to the Wall. For the women and children, we must be ready to send them south if the army breaks and the Wall falls. Lady Sansa, send word to your cousin, Lord Robin, in the Eyrie. Ask if he will shelter our most vulnerable if needed. The Giant’s Lance is near impenetrable to attack from below.”

“Robin is only a boy,” Sansa warned him. “In the Vale the power is held by Petyr Baelish. I’d imagine that I do not need to tell you what kind of man he is, Your Grace.”

“Lord Baelish was chosen by King Robert as his Master of Coin,” Umber interjected. The man had one hand around a mug of ale, and it wasn’t improving his demeanor. “I never heard anyone accuse him of being dishonorable.”

“Have you ever met Petyr Baelish, Lord Umber?” 

“I’m no southron knight.” He scowled at her, lifting his ale. “But I’d sooner trust men I’d never met who served their king loyally, than a Lannister at my hearth.”

“Perhaps you should be more careful with your ale.” Lady Berena studied him, scornful. The newly-made Lady of Hornwood had no time for the conniving of petty, jealous men. “Lady Sansa is the eldest daughter of Ned Stark. Her honor is not in question within the walls of Winterfell.”

Lyanna Mormont interjected, frowning at Sansa. “Lady Sansa is wearing Tyrion Lannister’s ring.”

“That ring is worth more than all the food on Bear Island,” Sansa told her, unflinching in the face of Lyanna’s anger. She knew it for what it was; the pain of an inexperienced young girl who could not see that they were on the same side. “I will not cast it into the snows.”

“Is that what the Imp said when he made you a Lannister?” Lyanna’s face was fierce. House Mormont had answered Sansa’s ravens, come when called upon for aid, but she was not pleased to be in Winterfell. “If you kept it for its value, why not sell it for coin and purchase food?”

“Are there merchants in Winterfell that no one told me of?” Sansa’s question was pointed, but her voice steady. “My lady, I did what was required of me to survive. But I am a Stark. I will always be a Stark."

Lady Mormont stared at her. "As you say.”

“Does this mean that House Mormont is going to die out?” Eddara asked, from her place beside Lyanna. The younger girl flushed red with anger as she pressed on. “You have to marry to continue your line, Lady Lyanna, and it seems you intend to take your husband’s name.”

Before Lyanna could retort, Stannis intervened. “Lady Sansa was forced into marriage with the Imp in the name of Cersei’s bastard. He had no more right to marry her off than did the Hightower of Oldtown. Murdering Lord Stark did not give him that right. Nor did the massacre at the Red Wedding. I’ll hear no more of this petty bickering.” Stannis Baratheon, of all men, was not known for his clever politics, but his stark reminder of the reason Sansa was left to rule Winterfell in the name of the youngest of three brothers seemed, for a moment, to have quieted the room.

And then Umber gestured at Sansa with the same hand he had clenched around his ale. “It isn’t petty. If the lady is compromised, she shouldn’t be regent to Lord Rickon.”

Irritated and not quite subdued, Lyanna turned her ire on him. “ And who would you propose take her place? You? House Umber has served House Stark for thousands of years, and you broke faith with their lord. You were sworn to shelter Lord Rickon, and you imprisoned him instead.”

“Bold words from such a young girl.” Kinvara thought she could hear Stannis’ teeth grinding. These Northerners had been abandoned by the crown, and under the dubious rule of the Boltons they had viciously guarded their lands and resources from their fellow lords. Now they were as like to turn on each other as they were anyone they deemed too different from their liking. “One has to wonder if Lady Alysane would say the same.”

“You have no right to speak.” She was a third his size, but the cold fury she directed at him was unmatched by his cruel words. “Your father is no less a prisoner of the Lannisters than my sister. You have no more right to name yourself lord than I.”

“Lady Sansa is her brother’s regent, as is the right of his closest kin,” Yet again, Stannis attempted to break up the argument. His expression suggested that he had more often been the one bickering than the peacemaker. “We have no time for this. Winter has come, and unless we share our food stores and strength none of us will survive. There is also the matter of the White Walkers-”

“Children’s stories.” Lyanna put in, still ruffled by the argument he had stopped.

“Lady Lyanna speaks rashly,” Lord Cley’s voice was quiet, but the table stilled to listen to him. He was as young as Lady Eddara was, but he did not have the ability to shout over the others. Not anymore, “But she is correct in her meaning. What evidence is there before us that the demons of legend are anything other than that? Myths and legends. We have the word of a few wildlings.”

“If you ask me,” Umber was quick to add, “the wildlings are the problem. Not these living dead.”

“The wildlings are going back to the Wall after Jon Snow is entombed.” Stannis informed him, trying to redirect the conversation. “And you have more than the word of the wildlings. You have my word. I can confirm that the White Walker are real.

“You may have forgotten,” Sansa added her support to Stannis’ cause, although it was less than he might have wanted. “King Tommen still sits the Iron Throne. He will not leave the North in peace forever.”

“He might have, if his Warden had been left in place.” Umber’s tone left no question as to who he blamed for that..

“Smalljon,” Lord Cley’s voice was quiet, but firm, “Ramsay Snow murdered my family because we refused to pay taxes. Is that the sort of liege you wished to bend the knee to?”

Umber grumbled at that, but did not dare directly disagree. Lady Berena contributed to his point. “With his bastard being intended to marry a Stark, I doubt that Roose would have kept power long. It was not only the Starks he betrayed.”

Stannis seized the opportunity Sansa had provided to regroup the meeting and bolster his support. “Yes, the Lannisters still lie in wait. Winter keeps them at bay for now, but when the spring comes they will remember that the North refused to bend the knee. They would never be content to give up their hold on the North.” 

Lady Berena drew back in her seat, and Lyanna and Umber stopped glowering at each other over the table. Encouraged, Stannis continued. “There are many threats at hand. The Tyrells join their power with that of the Lannisters. Tommen grows older every day, and soon he will desire all of his kingdoms to bend the knee. So long as Cersei’s bastards sit the throne, no Northerner will be safe. She knows that you will never accept Lord Eddard’s murderers as your rulers. Lions lie in wait in the south, and in the east another pretender awaits. And Targaryens have been no kinder to the North than Lannisters.”

“Targaryens?” Umber grunted. “Who’s talking about Targaryens?”

“We had heard Viserys died on the Dothraki Sea,” Lady Berena agreed with Umber for the first time since their arrival in Winterfell. “What of the Targaryen line is left to claim the throne?”

“Mad Aerys’ daughter, Daenerys, fled to Essos with her brother.” Stannis seemed distinctly uncomfortable to follow this line of questioning. “In the Bolton’s correspondence there was word from Kings Landing about her.”

“What news?” Lady Eddara asked, looking to her aunt for aid. It seemed Berena did not know either, for she waited for Stannis to answer. “I had heard she was wed to a horselord to buy Viserys an army, and then her new husband killed him because he lusted after his own sister.”

“Daenerys was wed to Khal Drogo,” Stannis explained to the table at large, “and he did kill Viserys, although I cannot speak as to why. But rumors had long come from the east that Daenerys had hatched dragons, and emerged from the wilds of Essos with a Dothraki horde behind her.”

“Dragons?” Umber scoffed. “I believe in dragons when I see them with my own eyes.”

“Whatever the case, a dragon did hatch on the Dothraki Sea,” Melisandre spoke for the first time during the meeting. “Be it from eggs or Daenerys herself, she came from the Dothraki Sea, took Slaver’s Bay as her own, and released the cities’ slaves.”

“Are we to fear a girl half-way across the world, with an army that fears the sea?” Umber demanded, growing irritated.

“She did not remain in Slaver’s Bay,” Stannis said, “Dragons or no, she attacked the Free Cities. The most recent news is of her fighting Myr with her Dothraki.”

In their corner of the table, dismissed by the bickering Westerosi lords, Kinvara and Melisandre exchanged quiet glances. Daenerys  _ had _ hatched dragons, three of them, and she had crushed the Free Cities with such speed that they had no time to prepare. Once, Volantis had been as skeptical as Smalljon Umber about the birth of dragons into the world. Melisandre had convinced Stannis of their existence, just as she had convinced him of the existence of the White Walkers. These lords, small-minded as they were, would not believe unless they saw. And by then it would be too late.

Eventually, Stannis let them go. It was late in the evening, and he would not persuade them tonight. They left, alone and in groups, to retire to their rooms and plan around their gullible king. Or, at least, Winterfell’s gullible king. Sansa was last to leave, speaking with Stannis softly as the others filed out. Rickon had been difficult to manage at best, and the king wanted to teach the boy the value of tact. Yet Osha, his wildling companion, had garnered much support for the young boy among the wildlings. They would not stand for him being mistreated or, to their sensibilities, brain-washed.

At last they were alone. Kinvara followed Sansa to the door, and just as she exited she saw Melisandre stand from the table and approach her brooding king. She crowded as close as she dared, but Stannis had not appreciated her touch since the death of his wife. “You spoke of Daenerys Targaryen tonight.”

“Aye.” He grumbled, looking over the map before him, hands braced on the edge of the table. “What of her?”

“Her dragons are a gift from the Lord of Light,” Melisandre said, “They are fire made flesh.”

“He gave the Targaryen girl dragons? He might have given me an army, instead.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she allowed, “but dragons… they are not like any other creature alive today.” Melisandre pressed herself as close as she dared to her king, all but resting her head on his shoulder. “There comes a day when the cold breath of darkness will fall heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall wield Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and the darkness shall flee before him.

“You told me once that a dragon would have served you better than a sword at the Blackwater. Azor Ahai defeated the darkness with a fiery sword. Would not a dragon have served him better than steel?”

Behind her, the door closed, and Kinvara could no longer hear them. Melisandre had been single-minded since she learned that Daenerys and her dragons were not a tale, but living, breathing things. She was convinced that a stag would ride a dragon. Kinvara was not so sure. Daenerys’ three children were wild, spirited things. Their mother was the Breaker of Chains, and those that called her mother were not slaves. No dragon would tolerate Stannis so long as Stannis remained unyielding. 

They would not turn against their mother, and she would not like the pretender to her crown any more than her children did. 

The way down from this wing of the castle was long and winding. Several times she thought she heard the voices of those ahead of her, but it was a trick the halls played. As she came down the last of the stairs to the main corridor, she looked out the window that was carved into the wall there.

From here she could see the godswood, and the she-wolf within it. The leaves of the weirwood were as red as Sansa’s hair, and the branches swayed as she walked among them. It was most excellent camouflage for Winterfell’s lady. Because the Northerners believed that the Old Gods looked through their faces, and any oath said before one of the trees was sacred, they held their ceremonies in the godswood. Marriage oaths and oaths of fealty alike. 

In her father’s godswood, Sansa knelt, and Kinvara wondered what she was saying to the silent, weeping eyes of the trees.

~oOo~

New Ghis still remembered the dragonfire that had destroyed the Ghiscari of old, their island-city just across the Ghiscari Strait from the crumbling ruins of the capital of the once-great Ghiscari Empire. After Daenerys and her children burned their legions, they had bowed again to Valyria. A small contingent of Unsullied and high-ranked freedmen from the Bay of Dragons had sailed to take control of the city and her island. These were men and women that Daenerys herself had lived beside. She trusted them to do well by New Ghis.

Qarth had never known the threat of dragons until Daenerys Stormborn came to their gates. She had no Unsullied to control their city and few allies here, and she knew that the Qartheen, from the poorest beggar to the highest nobleman, would rebel against the rule of the Dothraki. She regretted it, but she was on a short timeline. When a man apologized to her before releasing a manticore, she burned the house of the Sorrowful Men to the ground. The assassin had given up the Tourmaline Brotherhood as his benefactors, and they had died as well.

She had taken their eight hundred ships and immeasurable wealth as her own. If Daenerys was to be queen of the ashes she would not do it half-way. Once the Sorrowful Men and their merchant princes were dead, no one dared defy the dragonlord in their midst. The east sent gifts to her harbor. Some Daenerys kept for her war chest, but others she used. Qarth was a city of false men. They decorated the front of their clothes finely, but left the back bare. They spoke sweet words to your face and lies behind your back. And above all, Qarth respected opulence.

So Dany gave them what they wanted.

The Hall of a Thousand Thrones became her seat. Jewels and gold and silks she gave to freedmen who quickly grew to become leaders in trade and travel. Several times the free men attempted to consolidate their power and rise up, but those who defied her faced dragonflame. In the face of such magic, many within the city began to worship her as a god, not only the common people, but also the highborn. 

Trying to discourage this, Dany held audience as often as she could. She often brought those who she was considering naming to her counsel with her, to see how they reacted to her petitioners. Today a trio of moneylenders sat with her, those from the newly-remade bank, stripped of greedy slavers and filled with clever freedmen and masters’ coin.

Her next petitioner was a tall, thin, white-haired man with a long moustache. With him he brought a little box of dark wood and a pale metal clasp. A mummer went through those who had gathered to watch the proceedings, but Dany paid it no mind. The man bowed as a young scribe with the pale skin and dark hair of the Qartheen introduced him in the traditional Qaarthi tongue.  _ “Queen Daenerys, I present to you Urrathon, called Night-Walker.” _

_ “Welcome to my court. What is it I may do for you?”  _ She asked him.

_ “I do not come seeking a boon from you, lovely Queen. I have brought you a gift.” _ He presented the box to one of her guards, who she had freed from a manse in the city and who had volunteered to join the city guard for a time. The guard took it and examined the outside carefully, then opened it to look within. When he found nothing concerning, he brought it up to Daenerys, seated in the throne of the High King.

Inside it was coated with red silk, which framed tall, twisted black stone. Dany reached down to touch it, and found the edges razor sharp. She looked up to Urrathon, and he explained.  _ “A glass candle, forged in the fires of Old Valyria. Any who can light it may see across mountains, seas, and deserts; give men visions and dreams; and communicate with one another half a world apart.” _

_ “And how does one light it?”  _

Urrathon Night-Walker smiled, a tight, cruel thing.  _ “WIth fire and blood.” _

_ “Thank you, Urrathon Night-Walker, for your fine gift.” _ Daenerys was not a fool. She knew that he had brought her a dragonglass candle because he feared that she would do to his coven what had been done to the Undying. Gently, she closed the box and handed it to the handmaid that was assisting her. The girl retreated from the hall, and the sorcerer bowed again and joined the crowd of mostly freedmen that had gathered to watch her hold court.

Next was a woman Dany had only heard of, but she was unmistakable. Her mask was made of hexagonal shapes filled with metal. Her dress had the same pattern. Her eyes were dark, and her face hidden. The scribe said,  _ “Now comes Quaithe, Shadowbinder of Asshai.” _

_ “Welcome to my court.” _ Dany told the woman.

Quaithe’s face was hidden, but her eyes were sharp. She spoke in the Common Tongue. “You did not bring with you Jorah the Andal, as you did before.”

For a moment the court was quiet, the watchers mummering curiously. Dany resisted the urge to toy with her ring, sliding her fingers along the leather of her skirt instead. “He spoke of you. Quaithe with her warnings and her foresight.”

“Nothing of late, I fear.” Quaithe said.

“No. Not recently.” Looking the woman full in the face made her dizzy. It might have been the symbols on her mask, or her piercing eyes. “Why did you help Jorah? Why did you help me?”

“I knew another girl of the blood of Aegon, once.” Quaithe told her, voice quiet in the great hall. “She rode a dragon as blue as your eyes.”

“There are no other dragons.” Daenerys told her. The reply was instinctive. No sooner had she said it than her mind caught up with her mouth. Uncertain, she added. “My eyes are violet.” They were, now. They had not been, when Jon Snow drove a blade through her heart.

“Her eyes were as well.” Although Dany could not see her face, she sensed the change. Quaithe nodded, a look solidifying across her face. “She, too, was meant to be a queen.” 

“This woman, what was her name?” Dany asked, unsettled.

“Rhaena.” 

She and Dany stood and looked at each other; Dany on her throne and Quaithe in her mask. Both hidden behind their own protections. At last Dany spoke, reverting back to court manners learned so long ago in Meereen. “You gave Jorah sound advice. What can I do for you?”

“I have not come to ask something of you.” Quaithe’s eyes were bright. “I have come to give something to you.

“Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The red star bleeds, and the glass candles are burning. From smoke and salt, Azor Ahai has come again to make the world over. The chains have been broken; death itself has bent the knee, and all that fall fighting for Azor Ahai’s cause shall be reborn. You will wake the dragons from the stone, and your triumph over the darkness will renew a dynasty that will last ten thousand years. Soon comes the birth of dragons, and with it the end of darkness and cold. 

“Beware. Kraken and lion, flame and sphinx; the dragon’s son and the mummer’s dragon. They shall come day and night to see the wonder that has been born again into the world, and when they see they shall lust. For dragons are fire made flesh, and fire is power.”

“I do not understand,” Daenerys insisted. “Tell me. Show me.”

“Look.” Quaithe replied. “See.”


	59. Qaarth IV

Early that morning, Sansa had curled up in her father’s solar - or rather, her solar, but she hadn’t admitted that to herself yet - pouring over grain harvest amounts and reports from Robb’s war and winter lengths with a massive white wolf at her feet. 

She was dressed like a Stark, in dark grey and heavy wool wool. Her gown did not have a front closure like most southern dresses, but a white direwolf across the chest. Over her shoulders hung a heavy winter cloak with a fur collar. She wore no jewelry except for Tyrion’s golden ring on a smoke chain around her neck, and a simple dragonfly brooch on her cloak. It was a blatant effort to mark herself as a Stark of Winterfell, and Lord Rickon’s elder sister. She was a woman ruling by the blood of her brother, and she wanted the North to remember who she was.

Sansa had left the secrets of Winterfell’s library to Melisandre and Kinvara, but even after they had searched high and low, there was little to find. Kinvara suspected that more important documents could be found in Castle Black’s library. What information she did find that might be helpful, she brought to Sansa’s solar, and read there. That offered more information to her than she would ever have found in Winterfell’s books.

Today, Sansa was worrying over the smallfolk of Wintertown. Stannis was certain that the White Walkers were coming, and while Sansa might not believe his words she still had eyes to see. The wildlings were so frightened that they had made a pact with the Night’s Watch and fled south of the Wall, and her older brother had let them come through. White Walkers or no, something strange was happening. 

The longer she spent with Sansa, the more she understood the girl. She was a wolf, Sansa was. Even in a cage. She had handled Joffrey admirably, a little girl with tradior’s blood protecting the king’s own people from him. The court had abandoned her, and she had comforted them when Stannis came to Blackwater Bay. Just now, she stood before Stannis Baratheon and argued for her people.

“There are hundreds of smallfolk in the yard, erecting shelters against your walls. Their children are underfoot and there are livestock everywhere. Who are all these folk?” The king demanded.

“My people,” Sansa answered, and although she had to look up to meet Stannis’ eyes she did not cower. “They were afraid.”

Stannis’ jaw clenched. Kinvara did not need a translator to understand his expression. Sansa had a soft heart. Only a woman would crowd useless mouths into a castle that would soon be under siege. “How do you intend to feed these people?”

“Father always cared for his people. Why would the North follow me if I abandon them now?” Sansa motioned to the papers before her, books and letters and parchment all across it. “Without the North I cannot feed your army. And if an army of dead men comes marching before my walls am I to leave my people outside to bolster their ranks?”

“What will you do with them? They are no fighters.” Stannis said. “They are women and children.”

“Why would men fight for us if we left their families outside our walls?” Sansa leveled her jaw. She had acclaimed Stannis as king, but she was learning to not bend so easily. “When the time comes, I will send them south. But I can do nothing with them until I have rallied the North to Winterfell. House Dustin and Ryswell have yet to send men to bend the knee, and the Manderlys are two weeks away. We need the grain they have.”

“There are traditional offers of lands or marriages we can use to draw them in.” Stannis was blunt. “My understanding is that you were working on doing so.”

“I am. The Manderlys have daughters my age, but no sons. And they have sons Rickon’s age, but no daughters. Both the Dustins and Ryswells were close to the Boltons. They have family ties. They likely fear your wrath, but it is ill-done to reward disloyalty with marriages.”

“If they do not honor their oaths, then I will march on them on behalf of your brother. But not unless we must. There is also the matter of Riverrun. Have you any word from your sworn shield?”

“Even if the Lannisters permit the men within Riverrun to march north to support a rebellion, what am I to feed them?” Sansa returned. “Brienne will return as soon as she can. I only hope we will have settled our supply concerns before she arrives. WIth an army or alone. And the wildlings! They want to burn my brother and bury his bones so that they can return to the Wall. And your priestess refuses to let me lay him with his ancestors in the crypts!” 

Stannis was on the defensive for the first time. His frown deepened. “I will speak to Melisandre, and arrange for a time for the pyre and ceremony.”

“She needs to stay away from my families’ crypts. Would you allow her to break into the Sept of Baelor and attempt her “last rite” on your brother?” Kinvara, despite it being her god that was being discussed, found the conversation amusing. Stannis had made allowance after allowance to Melisandre, desperate for his crown, and in doing so he had lost the respect of his men and the loyalty of his daughter. “I have also heard that you wish to shelter wildling women and children in Winterfell. What am I to feed them? Where am I to put them? You claim that the smallfolk will overrun our supplies, what about them?”. 

“How do you expect them to fight for us when we will not shelter them?” Melisandre interjected. Her voice was sweeter than that of Stannis, but a snake was a snake. 

Sansa turned to look at her. She was a nervous thing. Kinvara had watched her refuse to tell a maid she had brought her cold water for a bath, but for her people she would fight as fiercely as any lion for its own life. “There are a few hundred smallfolk in my castle, that King Stannis would turn out. That is a vast difference from 30,000 wildlings.” She drew herself up. “Lady Melisandre, King Stannis, do not misunderstand. If an army of the dead marches upon us, certainly the wildlings will need shelter. Nor do I begrudge them shelter through the storms. But I cannot perform miracles. If you want Winterfell to shelter 30,000 people, then I must first secure the North.”

“Mance Rayder’s twelve year old daughter, Val, and a number of chiefs among the wildlings will need shelter within the castle,” Stannis allowed, “but most can remain outside.”

“And the Northern lords will be greatly displeased that wildlings have crossed the Wall. The Umbers have threatened to leave multiple times, the others will be little better. Lord Karstark has already left, and we should be glad he left his daughter with us without a fight.” Sansa continued. “You are their king, you have made the alliance. They will turn to you for answers.”

“Answers? The White Walkers come, and the cold with them. Their dead servants number in the thousands upon thousands.” Stannis told her, stubborn even to losing an argument.

Sansa’s features filled with regret. “Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths.” She blinked away tears. “The White Walkers have been thought to be myths for centuries upon centuries.” Sansa motioned to Melisandre. “You trust her, and the words of the Night’s Watch. I trust you, because you are my king. But the others, what will we tell them? We cannot show them what is coming. They will not trust the word of witches or wildlings.”

“When they come, all will know.” Melisandre said.

“Your Grace, if they are what you say, by the time they are here, it will be too late.”

~oOo~

Once the sun had set and Dany had seen to the last of her duties, she retired to her rooms. 

For the first time in a long time (since she woke in her husband’s pyre), she was alone. A thousand noblemen and a hundred thousand freedmen were happy to keep her company, but there were none in Qarth she trusted enough to be alone with. Even with Drogon and Viserion dozing in the yard outside, she slept with a dagger under her pillows. At this point she thought that if she had brought even Ser Jorah with her, she might have curled against him at night. Her nightmares were terrible.

So tonight she did not sleep.

Instead, she brought with her the leather box given to her by Urrathon Night-Walker, lay it on her bed, and opened it. It was indeed dragonglass, forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. Swords made of the material had distinctive patterns, and although they were more brittle than steel they were much sharper. They were also the only thing that could destroy a White Walker, and made fighting a wight far simpler than did a sword of steel.

Inside of the box, the candle was half-wrapped for protection, and Dany gently collected it. She carried it across the room to set it in the candelabrum on the windowsill, where it fit as if the candleholder had been created for it. Dany did not have firesteel. She had not even thought of it. Now that she did, something told her that it would not have worked on a dragonglass candle. Gently, she freed the wrapping and set it aside. Now she could take a closer look at the twisted form of the candle. Admiring it, she reached forward to touch the smooth black glass.

The edge sliced into her fingertip, not deep, but enough so to draw blood. She jerked her hand back with a gasp, and turned about for a cloth to wrap her finger in. When she turned back to the window, focus on her cut, movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Slowly, the droplets of blood left behind began to crawl up the candle. Hand forgotten, Daenerys followed their path. When at last they reached the top they collected there, the beads of blood fusing together in little bursts.

And then flame leapt from the candle.

For a moment she could only stare. The flame was unusual. It gave off an unpleasant, bright light that did strange things to the colors within her room. The blue of Dany’s dress glowed like clean ice, and the shadows at her back looked like holes in the world. Quaithe had said that with a glass candle she could look half the world away, and while the fires showed Dany many visions there was something clear and crisp about the too-bright fire that called to her. 

She reached for it. 

A walled city stretched along the coast, and Dany recognized Kings Landing in a heartbeat. Among the endless rows of houses, the Great Sept of Baelor rose from the center of the city, and although Dany had never seen it before, her enormous white walls were impossible to mistake. It had been built by her ancestors and perhaps destroyed by them as well.

The sky changed, the blue of it turning as brilliant as clear ocean waters. Dany shuddered, and then she stood inside the Sept. In the center of the Sept, a white-haired man stood in a simple robe and bare feet. Frowning softly, he said, “it appears the Queen Mother doesn’t wish to attend her own trial.” Slowly, he turned to look about him. In the stands, Dany could see the sigils of many noble houses, from the Reach and Crownlands alike. “Bring forth Loras Tyrell.” A fat man bearing the Tyrell sigil stepped from the stands and moved toward him. 

Their only warning was the rumble of the ground beneath their feet before terrible, terrible flames consumed them. Dany stood in the center of it all and watched, her own ghostly self feeling singed by the horror that unfolded before her, but remaining unharmed. Flames had engulfed the sept and her denizens, and a block of the city besides. The Sept collapsed, sending bits of it scattering across even further, killing those it struck. At last, Dany was standing in the center of ashes and rubble, and green flames slowly burning down.

As she watched, the strange green of the flames changed into something almost normal. Into the color of grass on the Dothraki Sea. Then she stood inside a great keep, her walls whole and unburnt, but it could only be the Red Keep. A young woman of an age with Dany and a younger boy were knelt before a statue of a woman with an infant in her arms. Incense burned on the altars and the high windows turned sunlight into rainbows. They had been praying, Dany thought, but now they were looking above them, to where dust still fell from the ceiling. 

Closer to the entryway, another woman in a heavy habit and dull gown stood behind the couple, also uncertain. “What was that?”

From her experience in the Sept, and the state of the room, Dany imagined that the shaking the explosion had caused must have only stopped. The boy rose to his feet, his golden overcoat glittering like gold in the light of the room. On his head was a matching crown of gold, with intricate antlers rising from the base. She had only a moment to reflect that this must be a Baratheon king before the doors to the sept were flung open. 

A great beast of a man entered, eight feet tall and wearing the golden armor of the Kingsguard. He strode across the sept without hesitation, past the lined benches and the well-lit alters. When he came to the older woman standing in the aisle, he cast out his gloved hand and struck her in the face. She fell back with a sharp cry, crumpling into a limp pile on the stones, while her attacker did not pause.

The boy king cried out, “Septa Unella!” He pushed the younger woman behind him, and she backed away from the knight, toward the statues behind them. “Ser Gregor, what have you done? Stand down!” 

It was then that movement in the entryway caught Dany’s eye. Cersei Lannister stood there. She wore a dress of rich red, accented with golden lions embroidered on the edges, and a belt of gold at her waist. The trappings of a Lannister. Dany knew the smile that she wore. This day was not done. Without breaking stride, the knight tried to step around the king to the right, and then to the left. Although he held his sword with shaking hands, Tommen Baratheon did not give way. Dany could not help but admire the boy’s bravery. He could not be any older than she was when she was sold to  _ Khal _ Drogo, but he defended his wife with all his heart. Tired of being thwarted, the knight drew back once more and stepped through the sword. It pierced his skin where his helm met his breastplate, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he batted the little king away like a fly to pursue his goal.

Too small to give any resistance to the movement, the boy landed between the statues of the Maiden and the Crone, and did not rise again. A shriek was torn from Cersei’s lips and the woman lifted her skirts and tore across the room to collapse at her son’s side, calling his name to the unseeing gods. Across the sept, Queen Margaery had taken the instant in which the knight faltered, had looked to Cersei at her cry, to make a run for the door. The knight gave chase. Outside, there was the shouting of men and clashing of steel, and the thunder of horses in full flight. 

Dany heard none of it. She approached the mourning woman as she lifted her son’s head into her lap. There was blood and tissue where he had landed and her gown was quickly wet, but Cersei paid it no mind. Rocking back and forth over her son’s corpse, she whispered words that sounded like prayer. “Gold," she pressed her face into her son's bloody hair. "Gold, gold, gold.” 

And she wept.


	60. Volantis III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys was mother to three children of her body, and two were dead.

After Rickon’s morning lessons Sansa abandoned her ladies and retired to her solar.

Kinvara found her there some hours later, sitting alone at her desk, reading a letter from a raven’s leg. She was dressed like a noble Northern lady, but she was leaned back in her chair rubbing her temples. When the door opened she started upright, but when she saw Kinvara she just dropped the paper onto her desk and sighed heavily. “My Lady.”

“Lady Sansa,” Kinvara returned, “I saw Lord Rickon in the yard. He has caused quite the stir among your men with that battle axe, but he wields it excellently.”

“Rickon says that Osha taught him to use it. That wildling woman who protects him.” Sansa shook her head, looking down at her desk. “Let him use it. It isn’t as though Ice will be returned to us.”

“Then what troubles you?” Kinvara settled into the chair before her desk. 

“A raven arrived from the Vale.” Sansa picked at the letter, looking no more pleased than before

“What news does Lord Robin send?” Kinvara had not even heard of a raven, which meant that, unless she was specifically monitoring the ravens, neither had Melisandre.

“Not Robin. Petyr.” Sansa shook her head, talking almost to herself. “He saved me from Kings Landing because he loved my mother and he killed Aunt Lysa because he wanted to marry me. I thought so, at least. Before he sold me to the Boltons.”

“That is who he is.” Kinvara had no assurances. “He steps on whoever he must to climb above them.”

“She lied for him, she killed for him, and he pushed her out the Moondoor.” Sansa looked up at her. “My Aunt killed Jon Arryn, didn’t she? If not for her my father would never have gone to Kings Landing.”

“She did.” He had done many other things as well. How well would a war between the North and Vale suit Daenerys? And how well would it suit the White Walkers?

“Your fires are so very useful,” Sansa gently corrected the lay of her skirts around her chair, eyes never leaving Kinvara’s, “but I cannot pay so high a price as the blood of innocents for information.”

“What does he say then, your mockingbird?”

“He offers to bring the Vale to my aid, but his help is contingent on a marriage alliance.” Sansa pulled the letter toward her to look at it again, still frowning.

“You don’t want to marry him.” Kinvara did not need the Lord to tell her that. Nor was she of the belief that Sansa should wish to marry the man responsible for the downfall of her family.

“I don’t want to marry anyone. I just want to be left alone. And my only protection from being married off to further a cause is Tyrion. But it isn’t about what I want,” Sansa was frustrated, trapped between Stannis and Baelish, and the White Walkers of legend. “Petyr wants the Iron Throne. If he married me he would gladly kill Rickon to make himself Lord of Winterfell. And then he would rid himself of King Stannis to make himself king. All through me. I can’t allow that. I won’t. 

“They say that my mother died trying to protect Robb, how can I do any less for Rickon?”

~oOo~

Their time in Volantis was short, and Dany filled her days with seeing to her people. 

Those who had been elected to rule were frightened after the murder of their fellows. She sat in their counsel and saw audiences at their side. When one woman, a former singer and bedslave behind the Black Walls, broke down into tears, Daenerys drew her into her arms and offered comforting words. Peaceful former slavers were blockaded in their own homes. Dany knocked on their doors and drank tea in their sitting rooms. When they walked her outside she kissed their faces and left with them the good-will of the community.

If ever she had free time, Dany would ride a borrowed mare along the city streets. Men stopped their work to reach out to the horse’s sides, praying for her blessing. Women stepped out of doorways and Daenerys stopped to speak with them. Some needed aid, and Dany directed them on who to speak with. Others just wanted to hear her voice. One brought a newborn to the horse’s side and begged that Dany touch the child, sure that it would make the sickly little girl hale and healthy. She did as the woman asked, but also sent her to one of the many healers set up within the city. Children danced in her wake and trailed along behind her horse. 

When she learned that some feared to play in the streets because they had seen their siblings plucked from their homes in the uprising, Dany brought carts of wooden horses and leather balls with her. She played catch with the bravest ones until the rest joined in. On grassy fields and dirt trails and black stone streets, she spent time with half-a-hundred children, smallfolk and Old Blood alike.

In the evenings fine parties were often held by her court. They had been a staple of Volantene courts before she had taken power, and the freedmen had kept the tradition to give them a chance to gain the favor of foreign courts and Old Blood alike. The fashion of the day was pale gowns with heavy skirts and slight tops. All were gifted to her by her counsel, and she wore them in their support gladly.

But late in the evenings, Dany wore clothing that she had bid be made. Tonight she wore blue, the color of power among the Dothraki. She had returned to the familiar, light-weight dresses of Meereen made for the desert heat. It had soft, pleated skirts, and a belt made of pearls at her middle. It rose up her sides, leaving a diamond of skin bare at her med-section, and wrapped around her neck in the style of a slave collar.

The morning she had come to Volantis, Oberyn had made a gift to her of a longsword he had found after burning down half a mansion. It was Valyrian steel, and beautifully made with a pointed crossguard ornamented with gold and a hilt wrapped in fine red leather. A roaring lion made up the pommel, clearly expensive, the mane painstakingly carved in exquisite detail. Oberyn had told her of Brightroar’s name and history, and found her a smith to make a new pommel. Dany had worn it at her hip ever since. 

Like this she came to her chambers after a long day at court. Oberyn looked up from her side-table, parchment and maps spread out before him. She smiled at him, pausing before her mirror to remove her jewelry. While she removed the dragons around her neck, he came up behind her. With gentle hands, he untied the end of her braids and began to loosen them. 

As he came to the first bell, he tugged it free and placed it on her vanity. From the moment he touched it, it rang out, soft and sweet, until the wood muffled it.. “Soon you will have more bells than you can keep in your hair.”

“I’ll need more hair, then.” 

Oberyn’s hands were gentle as they worked. He placed another bell beside the first. “Will you wear them on the Iron Throne as well?”

“I wore them while I took Qarth, and they hate the Dothraki. Not without reason.” Dany said. “I will wear them in Westeros as well.”

“Perhaps you will start a new tradition.”

“I hope to start many new traditions,” She met his eyes in the mirror as he reached for the ivory comb with a dragon handle. “I will be the first woman to sit the throne.” Speaking of traditions unsettled her. It reminded her too much of the argument she had with herself every time she was in the presence of Tyrion Lannister. Her fingers tapped the edge of her chair. “What will I do if my eldest child is not fit to sit the throne?”

“What could be wrong with them? You will raise them, after all.”

“Maegor the Cruel was son to Aegon the Conqueror, and while they still tell tales of both they are not the same. Aenys was his son too, and he was weak. Daeron II was the seed of Aegon the Unworthy. I am the daughter of the Mad King. The child is not their parents, for all that they share blood.” She turned her head, silver hair slipping through his fingers like silk. “My dragons will outlive me. Imagine what my father could have done with my children.”

“Daeron was borne by Naerys. It was she who cared for him.” Oberyn said. “And it was not Aerys who raised you.”

“No. It was Viserys.”

When she said nothing else, he smiled, and tried to lighten her heart. “You told me that a maegi once said that you could have no children. Have you changed your mind?”

(Jon Snow held the jawbone of a young dragon. He looked up from it, his grey eyes meeting her violet ones. The smile that touched his face was hesitant and softly amused. “Has it occurred to you that she might not have been a reliable source of information?”)

“‘When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east’," said Daenerys. The woman’s words haunted her every waking moment. "’When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child’.” Dany turned to look at Oberyn, her hair shining like spun silver against his brown skin. “Oberyn, I’m pregnant.”

His hands went still. He reached past her to place the ivory comb on the vanity, so silent for a moment that she feared he would be angry. Then he took her face in one hand. The other settled on her stomach as he knelt before her. “A daughter for the Mother of Dragons.” He sounded awed.

“Or a son.”

Oberyn smiled, then. “I have eight daughters, and no sons.”

“Nine daughters, then?” Dany asked. 

She took a moment to inspect the fear that gripped her heart. When she had told Drogo that she was with child, she had been afraid, but he had been utterly pleased. He had picked her up around her waist and kissed her. Carrying his son had given her power within the khalasar. She had feared to tell Jon as well. Not only had she worried he would marry her out of a sense of duty, but also for his family’s reaction. Would his sisters have killed their nephew to take the throne? Dany had not wanted to find out. Nor had she wanted to tell Jon, and then the child die before it was born.

Perhaps she feared to tell Oberyn because fear was all she had ever known. 

He took up the silence. “In Dorne, the surname of a second son’s children does not matter.” Although his smile slipped from his face, the hand over her stomach remained reverent. “But the names of a queen’s children do. The last time a queen of your blood bore bastards, dragon fought dragon in the sky.”

“The last time a woman meant to sit the throne, you mean.” Dany clasped a hand over his. “Rhaenyra’s claim would have been challenged even if she had been a maid blessed by the Maiden herself come to earth.”

Oberyn shook his head. “If Trystane were here…”

“You would ask your nephew to marry me, and name your son his heir?” 

“Perhaps if Doran had sent him in my place the child would be his.” He sounded regretful.

“And perhaps she would not be,” Dany had to force herself not to bristle at his words. Westerosi had odd ideas of family and honor, she knew. “Perhaps this would be Daario’s babe. It does not matter. My children will carry my name. No matter if they are fathered by a Ghiscari of Meereen or a Dothraki khal or the Free Folk of the North.”

Oberyn frowned, looking up at her. “That is not what Westeros will think.”

“It does not matter what they think.”

“It does, if you mean to sit Aegon’s throne.” Oberyn shook his head. “Elia was a Princess long before she wed Rhaegar. She was clever and kind. She could soothe a man enraged and broker across a blood feud. She was of delicate health, but she gave the Prince two children in two years. Do you know what Aerys said, when she presented her daughter to the court? He refused to touch her. Said she ‘smelled Dornish.’” 

Oberyn almost seemed distant. Dany reached forward to touch his face. “I’m sorry.”

“My mother never should have married Elia to Rhaegar.” He told her, catching her hand in his. “Elia was not loved as she should have been in the north. She should have wed some Dornish lord and lived long with her children. Kings Landing did not care who Elia was. Just that she did not suit them for a queen.”

“The Iron Throne is a thousand swords of Aegon’s enemies,” Dany turned in her seat, and Oberyn shifted with her until he was kneeling between her legs, one of his hands still over her belly. “If I must take another thousand then I will.”

His smile was almost sad. “Fire and blood.”. 

“It may be that the child inside me is dead.” She said it before she could change her mind. Dany had not told him about the child that kindled within her when she died. There had not even been a chance to tell Jon, and telling another felt wrong. Besides that, she could not know if the child would have been deformed as Rhaego was. If their death had always been intended to pay for her life. “Rhaego was stillborn. He had scales and leather wings. He never drew a breath in this world.”

At the end, her voice broke. Oberyn stopped looking conflicted, and gathered her into his arms. She hugged his neck to her ribcage while his arms snaked around to her back, the side of his face pressed to his chest. His lips brushed her inner arm as he shushed her. “It’s all right, little dragon. Do not cry.”

Somehow the words brought tears to her instead of calm. She blinked them away. When she closed her eyes she could see a little girl with silver hair and dark skin. Rhaego had a long, pale braid in her visions, and she had always pictured Jon’s babe with his eyes. Her heart ached at the thought of it. “I cannot ask you to marry me when the maegi’s words may yet be true. I may not bear a living child. Not now, and not ever.”

“Doran will be angry, but he had a sister on the throne once and now he will have a brother.” Oberyn caught the hand she had pressed to her tears. “Let your child be born a princess of Dorne.”

“Only if the babe is born alive and healthy.” She said, looking down into his eyes. “I cannot ask you to marry me if I am only to give you dead children.”

“Dany, you could ask the stars themselves to wed you, and they would fall from the sky to kneel at your feet at the prospect.” He promised. “You alone are enough for any man who walks the earth.”

She wiped the tears away. “Even so.” 

“They will not like it that you wed after the child is born.”

“The priestess’ will say that it was before they were conceived if I ask it of them.” Dany paused, considering. “We can remarry by the Faith or Mother Rhoyne once we land in Dorne, if it pleases you.”

Oberyn smiled, then. “And not in the manner of the Dothraki? They will think it very dull.”

She could not help the laugh that bubbled from her chest at the thought of Irri’s reaction to the news. Oberyn brightened at the sound, the grin on his face reaching his eyes. Fondness was heavy in his gaze. 

And, oh, she thought this might end well after all.


	61. The Great Grass Sea IV

Denied access to the crypts, Melisandre had lit fires at sundown the night before.

Her audience was thin and failing, those Stormlords who might have joined her were once called the Queen’s Men, and with Selyse’s death, attendance to worship of the Red God had fallen to the point of nonexistence. Those men who did come to pray at the fires came after the last of the light had drained from the sky, in hoods and helms meant to hide their faces. 

In Westeros, the queen was the picture of femininity and power. She built allegiances, brokered marriages, and solved the realm’s ails. Selyse Forent had not been a particularly beautiful woman, but neither was Stannis a charismatic and compelling lord. While her husband had flailed where his brothers prospered, Selyse had brought the Reach to their aid and had a finger in a hundred fosterings across the Stormlands. And now she was dead. Another queen murdered at the hands of a not-quite king; a cause left shattered in her wake.

Kinvara did not feel badly for her death, but she could see the after-effects with blinding clarity. These Westerosi, they valued their women less than men. Shireen was Stannis’ heir, but she was not what he wanted. The Stag King had resented his wife for not giving him a son, and now the intelligent and loyal Sansa Stark was being passed over for her wild, distrustful. little brother. Kinvara had not joined Melisandre’s prayers. What the younger priestess prayed for was not what Kinvara awaited.

Instead she had spent her night praying before the hearth - Winterfell had no braziers - and seeking the dragon’s face in the fire. She had prayed to see Daenerys, and R’hllor showed her only Snow. Whatever the Lord had planned for him, His mind would not be changed. The last time that Kinvara had prayed so fiercely for one thing and been given another had not been that long ago. On the night the red comet bled across the sky, the only thing He would show her had been the birth of dragons into the world.

As dawn broke, Kinvara joined the men of Winterfell in breaking their fast despite her lack of sleep. Sansa and the kitchen had found a way to provide the highest lord and the greenest wildling with venison stew, black bread, and watered-down ale. Frankly, with a war on the way that could last for years, she was impressed. Or perhaps Sansa had decided that they were all going to die, so they might eat well, at least. 

After breakfast, Sansa had gathered her ladies. The eldest of them were Jonelle Cerwyn, Lord Cley’s elder sister, who had once been companion to Lyanna Stark, and Lady Berena, Lady of Hornwood. Closer to Sansa’s own age were Beth Cassel, whose father and uncle and cousin had died serving the Starks, and who was now Winterfell’s stewart; Alys Karstark, three years younger than Sansa and daughter to Harrion, who had accepted the king’s peace and been released from Riverrun; and Lady Eddara, four years Sansa’s elder and Lady of Torrhen’s Square. Certainly the strangest among them was Munda, daughter of Tormund Giantsbane, who the others often attempted to ignore.

Lyanna Mormont sulked among the men, and although the Umbers had the misfortune of not having a woman to join Sansa’s confidants, his son Ned had been sent to the practice yard with Rickon. Both houses would suffer, even had Rickon been of an age to run the castle, the household was a woman’s affair. Kinvara suspected that these Northernmen who showed such blatant disrespect to the last Starks had never truly listened to lessons in politics from their families. Lyanna was too young to have ever been given one, and Harrion was a third son. Their lack of experience was evident. Nevermind Smalljon, who had named himself lord in defiance of his father still being alive and imprisoned by men who had betrayed guest right. 

Sansa and her entourage made for the yard, Kinvara drifting along beside them. Soft conversation was held as Sansa paused to look over her brother training beside a Stark man. The young woman had suffered through the deaths of her family, powerless and alone. Forced to play nicely with their murderers in order to save herself. Now that she had them back, she had to see them to assure herself they were still there.

While the Northernwomen made small talk, Lady Berena’s eyes flicked down Kinvara’s robes. “Aren’t you cold?”

“I am a servant of the Lord of Light,” Kinvara assured her, smile mild, “He provides all the warmth I require.”

“The other priestess wears heavier robes.” Berena herself wore her thick wool robes with the sigils of both House Tallhart and Hornwood quartered on them. “The one who killed Stannis’ queen.”

“Melisandre,” Kinvara provided. “I cannot speak for her. If you wish to know, you must ask her.”

“She is the one who killed Queen Selyse, isn’t she?” Berena pressed onward, making her companions uncomfortable with her bluntness. “Or was that you?”

Before Kinvara could answer, a shout came from the far side of the courtyard. “OPEN THE GATE!” 

All turned to look as ten men rode through. Most were dressed in armor benefitting Riverlanders, too light for the winter which was quickly encompassing the North. Their exhausted horses were likewise snow-encrusted and cold. At their head was a one-eyed man who did not match his companions. He wore armor more similar to that of Stannis’ Stormlords than a man of the Riverlands, and upon his chest he bore forked purple lightning bolt on a black starry sky. 

Sansa collected her skirts and started down the steep stairs, and Kinvara leaned closer to Lady Berena before she could follow. “Stannis was the one who killed his wife. As his men if you do not believe me.” Most of the women didn’t hear her, already preoccupied, but Berena and Jonelle stared after her as she made to follow Sansa.

At the main gate, Sansa paused to direct one of the Stark men who had been speaking with the new arrivals. “Take their horses to the stables and de-ice them. Fetch warm blankets and grain.” She instructed as she brushed past them. At her approach, all attention turned to her. 

The man who had been speaking with the newcomers turned to address her. “Lord Dondarrion, this is Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s eldest daughter and Lady Regent of Winterfell. Lady Sansa, Ser Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven.”

“Welcome to Winterfell, my Lord,” Sansa greeted him, her blue skirts gently catching on the wind, “have you come for King Stannis?”

“Not quite, Lady Sansa,” He replied, a smile stealing across his face as if it did not belong there. “I have come in the name of the Brotherhood without Banners.”

“I fear I have never heard of them.” At Sansa’s side a pair of wolves appeared, Rickon’s black only slightly smaller than Jon Snow’s white. She absently pet the black wolf’s head as she spoke with the men. “What lord are you sworn to?”

“None. We’re a company based in the Riverlands. We fight on behalf of the smallfolk.” He paused, then, considering her. “I suppose one could say that we were founded by Eddard Stark. Do you remember me, my Lady?”

Silent, she studied him. First his face, eyes searching slowly, and then drifting to his leather tunic. At the sight of the worn sigil, covered in clinging mud and fresh snow, her frown deepened. “Beric Dondarrion. My father sent you to kill the Mountain for burning the Riverlands.”

“That’s me.” He agreed. “Without Lord Eddard I’d not be here. I’d not know what I know, I’d not have done what I’ve done. Because of him, we’ve come to aid in the war with the dead. Only me, my squire Ned Dayne, and a handful of men for now. There are more of us, in the Riverlands. We’ve just come a bit early.”

Sansa smiled, near wistful. “Then you are most welcome here.”

~oOo~

Oberyn and Rhaegal flew on to Tyrosh, to take command of her forces in the wake of Volantis’ defeat, but Dany remained on the mainland, slowly circling over the vast Dothraki camp at the edge of the Dothraki Sea. 

Her arrival was greeted with a rush of activity. A number of  _ khals _ and high ranked riders emerged from the camp to meet her. Among them was a familiar black stallion, and the sight of him warmed Dany’s heart. He had been chosen from Drogo’s herds in Vaes Dothrak, one of the finest of any horses in any  _ khalasar, _ because his master had saved the life of Drogo’s  _ khaleesi. _

Most of the riders pulled up before the massive black dragon, their horses throwing their heads and shying nervously, but the stallion had allowed young dragons to crawl over his rider and blanket. Once, brave, needle-clawed Drogon had hung from the horse’s neck and slithered his sinuous neck down his head to the soft skin between his nostrils. The stallion had snorted, but not tried to throw him off. Now he cantered right up to Drogon’s wings, allowing his rider to speak to Dany.

“Welcome back, Khaleesi.” Jorah’s smile did not quite reach his eyes.

“It is good to see you again,  _ qoy qoy _ . What has happened to make you so serious?”

“It’s Irri,  _ Khaleesi. _ ” Jorah said. “She’s come to the birthing bed.”

Wrenching the last of the saddle straps from her legs, Dany slid over Drogon’s warm scales to land on the ground beside his wing joint. She approached Jorah’s nervous horse and braced herself on the back of the saddle to swing her leg over his back. Clinging to the man, she peered around his shoulder. “Take me to her.”

Jorah did as she bid, nudging his horse into a fast canter through the crowded paths, the riders giving way as they passed. As they neared the center Dany found the tent that had once been her own sitting in the center of the surrounding camp occupied. She slid from the horse’s back, a cluster of people appearing to watch as she strode to the entrance to the tent and pulled the flap aside. Inside the light was dim, and before Dany’s eyes could adjust one of the elder women in the  _ khalasar,  _ Kesselli, a midwife, was in her face. 

_ “Get out, I said! No one-”  _ Her anger vanished the moment she got a good look at Dany as she stepped into the tent.  _ “Khaleesi,”  _ she gasped,  _ “forgive me. I didn’t-” _

From deeper inside the tent, in Dany’s bed, surrounded by women, Irri shrieked.  _ “Khaleesi!” _

Dany might have stayed to assure the surprised midwife, but instead she only lay a hand on her shoulder.  _ “It’s all right.”  _ She said, and ventured deeper into the tent.

A thick layer of blankets covered the bed, and Irri lay in the center. Women were clustered around her. Jhiqui sat by her head, holding one of her hands tightly. Another held water to her face, urging her to drink. Irri pushed the woman away, her free hand reaching for Daenerys. Dany clasped it between her own, Irri’s grip immediately crushing. 

She was tugged forward until she was leaning over her, and had to crawl onto the bed. Dany had ridden Drogon for hours, her leather armor was hot and dusty, but Irri dragged her so close that she could rest her head against Dany’s thigh. A wave of pain ripped through her, and she wailed, clinging to Dany.  _ “It hurts so much.” _

_ “Shhh, sweet one,” _ Dany soothed, reaching for the waterskin,  _ “it will be worth it when your babe is in your arms.” _

Daenerys remembered little enough of Rhaego’s birth, fevered and unconscious, surrounded by Mirri Maz Duur’s demons and the  _ khalasar’s  _ treachery. It had been hers, though. She had been the one in pain and afraid, not sitting aside and watching. Now all she could do was let Irri cling to her and mummer assurances as her friend wailed.

She felt helpless. Dany had brought dragons into the world and freed thousands of men, but she could not help now. There was no one who could do everything for everyone all of the time, and, right now, the best Dany could do for Irri was to be present and supportive. Irri sounded like she was being set afire, but women had done this for years beyond count. Dany had to trust that humans would have died off long ago if it was not for a woman’s strength.

It felt like hours after Daenerys had arrived in the tent, when at last one of the oldest women came to press on Irri’s distended stomach gently, and then moved down to the end of the bed. After a moment, her head popped up to look into Irri’s red, panting face.  _ “Irri, it’s time to push.” _

_ “It hurts!” _

_ “You’re almost done. Push!” _ Gripping Dany and Jhiqui tightly, she did as she was bid, screaming out as she bore down. It was not long afterwards, just as Irri took a gasping breath, that the cry of a babe sounded. 

Still exhausted, Irri tried to sit up. Jhiqui tucked bedding behind her shoulders, and Dany helped the midwife shift the newborn into Irri’s arms. It was a boy, red and wailing. His head was covered in a shock of hair as black as Irri’s own, but he had his father’s nose. It was impossible to tell yet, but Dany thought he might have Jorah’s eyes as well.  _ “He’s beautiful.”  _ She told Irri.

Her friend nodded, touching her son’s face, her pain turned to exhausted glee. The midwife who had delivered the baby spoke.  _ “What is his name?” _

Dany looked at Irri, but Irri looked back at Dany. She said. “ _ You name him, Khaleesi _ .”

_ “Me?” _ Dany looked back at the child, alarmed.  _ “He is your son.” _

_ “It is a great honor for the khal to name a child.”  _ Irri insisted.

_ “A great honor, only given to the highest ranking kos,” _ Jhiqui agreed, quickly, as she had in days long past.  _ “It is known.” _

Daenerys gathered the boy-child up in her arms, adjusting to the blankets he was wrapped in. As she stepped back, women swarmed Irri, who leaned back against her blankets. Alone, Dany looked down at the babe she held, making her way slowly toward the entrance of the tent. 

Outside Jorah waited, springing to his feet when he saw her. He took two quick strides toward her, and then stopped. Dany crossed the rest of the way herself, and tucked his son into his arms. Jorah had no children, but many nieces, and he cradled the newborn with expert care.

“You have a son,” Dany told him, in the Common Tongue of their homeland. The nearby Dothraki waited silently as the baby was passed between them. “His name is Vazzo.”

The Dothraki waited as Jorah looked upon his son. He swallowed hard, hands shaking in the blankets around the babe. When he looked up at her he looked almost as if he might cry. Then he turned his head to the men of Irri’s  _ khas _ and Dany’s  _ khalasar _ that surrounded them. Lifting his voice, he said,  _ “Irri ayyo anna rizh!” _

A cheer went up from the men surrounding them. Jorah waited for it to fade before continuing. “ _ Daenerys Vazyol ahakee ma Vazzo!” _

Daenerys knew that Irri could hear them from the tent: the consideration of the  _ khalasar _ of her son as if he was the great  _ khal’s  _ own. A cheer to match that which would have been Rhaego’s. When the shouting of the boy’s name died down - for every man among her riders knew that Jorah was Dany’s most beloved bloodrider - she took up Jorah’s announcement. 

_ “When Khal Drogo, who was my sun-and-stars, was alive, he promised under the Mother of Mountains to give our son the Lands of the Andals. The Iron Throne my father ruled from.”  _ Dany looked from face to face in the crowd.  _ “Now I shall make a promise, to Jorah the Andal, who is blood of my blood, and to my sister Irri.  _

_ “Vazzo bears my name. He shall be khalakka among my khalasar. He shall have the pick of my herds and a place in my tent and shall lead a khas of his own. So say I, Daenerys Vazyol, Great Khal of the Great Grass Sea and Mother of Dragons.” _

It was not only Irri who could hear the celebration of the Dothraki, but every man for as far as the eye could see. They would know of it in Tyrosh, in Braavos, in Yi Ti, and the news would arrive with every ship until even those in the Shadow beyond Asshai would tell of the newborn prince. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question: How do we feel about Catelyn Tully?


	62. Tyrosh VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She told me that Daenerys Targaryen was in the east. A queen who cared for the smallfolk and the children.

Dondarrion and his fellows broke their fast with the rest of Winterfell’s men, devouring their food like men starved.

While the lady of the castle left the hall with her companions, Kinvara lingered. Lord Beric and his men were clustered around a table, making light conversation with Stormlords and Northerners alike. Even the squire drank heavily from the ale, the warm hall welcome shelter from the frigid cold. 

It was near the end of mealtime when she caught sight of Melisandre entering the hall. The younger priestess wore a woolen red dress and was wrapped in cloak and scarf to keep her warm. On most day, she came to the hall after her king had left, and sat at the high table alone. She frequented neither Stannis’ daily morning meetings nor Sansa’s planning sessions with her ladies. Today, her gaze was drawn to the newcomers to the hall. 

Kinvara was near enough to hear their conversation when Melisandre approached them. “Beric Dondarrion,” she said, as she looked into the face of each man with him. “Did Thoros not accompany you?”

“Thoros remained behind in the Riverlands, finding a few traitors,” Beric replied, as he refilled his ale, eyes not even focused on the woman. “They’ll be along soon enough.”

The hall was near empty, something Kinvara was glad of when Melisandre finished her conversation with them and approached her. She spoke clearly and without preamble, and although she had the sense to speak in Valyrian there were few lords who had not learned the language as children. “ _ This man, Beric Dondarrion _ ,” Melisandre explained, eyes bright and eager, “ _ he is the one who was traveling with Thoros of Myr _ .”

She considered him from where she sat. His cloak had been removed, and from where she stood she could make out the ruin of his throat. There was also a neatly-patched hole in his tunic, and she thought that if she looked at the back there would be a matching exit point. The life in his eye was dimmer than it ought to be, and the other eye was covered with a leather patch. Kinvara studied him for a long moment, his frame and the missing pieces, the dimming of his fire into smouldering ash. 

When she said nothing, Melisandre continued. “ _ The Lord granted Thoros his favor. This is a sign, it must be. It is as I said. I have seen him in the fires. Dead, and then not. Fighting for Winterfell in the snow _ .” 

“ _ Lord Beric rose when the last rite was performed, and Jon Snow did not, _ ” Kinvara reminded her firmly. “ _ The Lord blessed Thoros, and Thoros is not here. Lady Sansa has banned you from approaching the crypts. _ ”

“ _ He will bless us as well, _ ” Melisandre insisted. She glanced over the tables, seeing that she had attracted the attention of a group of Mormont men, and lowered her voice.  _ “This is a sign, meant for us. _ ”

“ _ The red comet was a sign, _ ” Kinvara returned, “ _ Melisandre, you will never resurrect Jon Snow. It is not for R'hllor's servants to breath life back into his lungs. _ ”

The younger woman did not understand, Kinvara knew. She had little experience with revival and was limited to tales and second-hand information. She prayed for Snow, and so she saw him. Kinvara prayed for the Lord's will, and she did not see the Lord's fire being given to Melisandre. It was Daenerys who was fire made flesh, and Daenerys to whom the Lord had given his favor. 

Kinvara looked for the end to this endless war, and she did not see Snow. 

~oOo~

“ _ Khaleesi?” _ Dany looked up from the child in her arms. 

Jorah’s little son was a fussy baby, but Irri had no shortage of help at hand. Her sister Jhiqui sat at her side, and several young women from her  _ khas _ were gathered in the tent as well. When she saw that Aggo did not mean to share his concern with the tent, she handed the baby to Jhiqui and rose to follow him. 

Outside of the tent, with only her and Mossador’s Unsullied, three men from Dany’s personal guard, he spoke in a low tone. “ _ Khaleesi, there is a galley in Tyrosh’s harbor. They are from Westeros, they say. A wall.” _

_ “What do they look like? _ She asked, her heart seizing in her chest as she thought of Jon Snow in her cities.” _ Who are they?” _

_ “I don’t know. The white knight sends for you. That is all they say,” _

_ “I will go, then. Let me tell Irri.” _

_ “Yes, Khaleesi.” _ Aggo said. “ _ There is a ship in the harbor for you.” _

_ “I will take Drogon.” _ Dany replied. Aggo grinned at that. Oberyn had been concerned about her flying over open water, but among the Dothraki a woman rode until she gave birth. High ranked women, such as the  _ khaleesi _ or wives of bloodriders, might stop the entire  _ khalasar to give birth _ , but many others rode in a cart the day the baby was born and a horse the next morning. They thought Oberyn’s actions were very odd.

Dany returned to the tent where Irri was surrounded by women. She took her hands and leaned over the bed to press a kiss to her temple. “ _ I’m wanted in court, dear one. I will return to you.” _

_ “Stay safe, Khaleesi,” _ Irri replied, clinging to her hand for as long as she could. 

“ _ Drogon will watch over me.” _ She slipped from the tent again. On most days Dany wore Dothraki clothes when in their camp. Today she wore soft cloth and slippers made of deer skin, far more comfortable on her sensitive skin than unyielding leather. While they offered no protection from Drogon’s heat, she was not called ‘the Unburnt’ for nothing.

In the later months of her pregnancy, Drogon had become exceptionally clingy. Rhaegal and Viserion were off somewhere, but her youngest child was half-dozing a short distance from Irri’s tent. As she approached he picked his head up, stretched out his wings. Dany stopped by his head to pet his scales before carefully crawling up his back. 

He leapt into the air with a jolt, his wings catching the air and unfurling smoothly. In the air his movements were awkward, but in the air he was a thing of beauty. Rippling, his wings caught an updraft and they soared across the strait. Daenerys gloried in it. The baby in her belly was foreign compared to the feel of Drogon’s muscles under his skin.

From the air she could make out ships in the harbor, as small as the ones on the map in her war room. The ship Aggo had spoken of was docked there. Most galleys were primarily coastal ships, and the  _ Talon  _ was no exception. It would have sooner have sailed down the coast from the North to the Broken Arm of Dorne rather than risk sailing even from Greenstone to Tyrosh in a moderate sea. Even from the air, she was clearly not of Essosi make. Aggo was correct: the ship looked like those at Eastwatch. It was from the North.

When forced to leave Tyrosh and rush half-way across the world, Dany had made her residence in a former master’s manse more permanent. It had been chosen mostly for the large courtyard, which two of her three children could fit in. They could all fit in it, if Rhaegal stopped hissing at their siblings and just allowed the three of them to blend into a massive puddle of scales. But they were very much the stubborn middle child.

Still, her elder two children were still gone. If she brushed across the bond she had with them, she could sense them flying over water. They were probably hunting. Drogon had been going out far less, requiring Dany to have fish and cattle brought into the city for him to eat. Oberyn thought it amusing that he, too, preferred mutton to anything else. 

Once he was comfortably on the ground, Drogon turned his head so she could grip at his long horns for balance as she carefully clambered down his scales. On solid ground, she brushed out her dress. Her gown had skirts the color and texture of seafoam, secured just over her swollen belly by a white belt. She might have changed into something more queenly, but she was curious to see who had come to her court. It was suitable enough for guests.

Her audience room was used by her counsel often, but today it was empty of court and advisors alike. As she entered from the side of the room, she took in the situation. Atop a raised dais sat a white bench with a red-and-black banner draped over it. Oberyn had taken her seat, surrounded by Unsullied. As the door closed behind her, he glanced in her direction and rose to his feet. Swiftly, he crossed the stone floor to take her arm and assisted her in climbing the stairs. Once she was settled on the bench, shifting uncomfortably to adjust her stomach, he stood next to her.

In her hall stood a party of eight. She recognized one immediately, for Ser Davos Seaworth was hard to forget. His grey hair and brown eyes were the same, but years upon years had been lifted off his shoulders and soothed from his weathered face. Dany took a moment to think as she brushed her skirts into place. Shouldn’t he be with his king?

Of the other men, five were guards, spread out in a semi-circle behind Ser Davos and his companions. Their weapons had been taken from them, but even if they had been armed they would be no match for the fifty Unsullied in the hall. Another was a man with red-brown hair, and if Dany had to guess she would say that he was a sailor by the look of his clothes. The last wore a heavy black cloak over his shoulders, and had pulled the hood up to hide his face. 

Oberyn was the first to speak, her guest respectfully quiet as the heavily pregnant queen smoothed out her dress. From outside the hall they could hear Drogon making himself comfortable in the garden. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt. Empress of New Valyria, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, and Great Khal of the Dothraki. Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.

“Your Grace, may I present Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand to Stannis Baratheon, proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to Robert Baratheon. He has come to see you, and will tell none of us why.”

“Welcome to Tyrosh, Ser Davos.” Dany said. She hid her hands in her skirts to hide their twitching.

“Your Grace,” he said, in the same manner he had introduced Jon Snow to her on Dragonstone. It seemed that the knight, at least, could be trusted to remain a simple man. “Prince Oberyn mis-spoke. I am no longer in Stannis’ service. At least, I don’t think I am.”

“You don’t think you are?” Dany echoed, raising one brow. “What does that mean?”

“Stannis isn’t the man I once knew. When I accepted his justice and became his Hand, he was different.” Davos met her eyes as he spoke, his words earnest, if blunt. “I blame the Red Woman. When he was on Robert’s Small Counsel he spent little time on Dragonstone, and Robert wouldn’t have the priestess at count. Once he returned to Dragonstone… everything changed.”

She understood what he was saying well enough, but if she had never stepped foot in Westeros she would not. In an effort to clarify, she drew back a bit. “You say Lady Melisandre changed Stannis, and this made you leave his service? Would Tommen Baratheon not accept you into the king’s peace?”

“I didn’t ask him,” Davos said. “I don’t think he would have. It’d be a danger to his rule, and he already married that Tyrell girl.”

“I don’t understand,” Dany interrupted before he could continue, “how would you be a threat to Tommen Baratheon’s rule?”

“Not me. That’s the only reason I left Stannis, you understand.” He shook his head, countenance heavy with disappointment. Hurt. “Melisandre wanted to burn his daughter alive.”

Shireen Baratheon. Jon had mentioned her in passing, when explaining what had happened to the Baratheon brothers. She had known a deep hatred lay between Ser Davos and Melisandre, but she had not considered it overmuch. For him to have loved the girl she killed made quite a lot of sense. Most of Stannis’ army had abandoned him, why not his Hand?

The hooded figure behind him moved forward to rest a hand on Ser Davos’ arm. He quieted immediately, turning his head to look at him. The figure’s other hand reached up to brush back the thick hood, and Dany had a moment to look at her face. She had a strong jaw, leveled to the floor, and blue eyes shone from skin as fair as Dany’s own. Her gown was simple and grey. A dark grey kirtle over a lighter undergown. Dany could not tell if it was meant to be grey or not. On her feet were simple leather boots, the dress too small to hide them. Most notably, distinctive grey-and-black skin, cracked and flaking, covered the left half of her left cheek, extending down to cover most of her neck.

No sooner had she taken this in than her Unsullied stood to attention, brandishing their spears. “ _ Dovaogēdys _ !” Dany called, before the skittish Westerosi could do more than tense. “ _ Kelītīs _ .”

“ _ Lady Shireen suffered greyscale as a child, but it was halted _ .” Oberyn said, in near perfect Volanteen Valyrian. “ _ It is not contagious. _ ” 

The Unsullied hesitated, several looking to Mossador, the head of Dany’s personal guard. He, in turn, looked at Dany for guidance. At the slightest shake of her head, he seconded the order. “ _ Stand down.” _

“Forgive my guards,” she bid her guests, “they fear greyscale. In Essos, few children are able to be cured.”

Davos, who had moved to block Shireen from harm with his own body, looked around the room. He seemed to realize very suddenly that they were surrounded. “We don’t come to you beggars.” He said. His hands fumbled for a moment, before they withdrew a scrap of cloth from his belt. It was ragged and grey, but he opened it with great reverence. Something shone from his hand as he gently shook the cloth over his hand. “I bring a favor from the red priestess.”

She looked again to Mossador, who stepped out from behind her and walked down to the knight. Careful to not look at Shireen, he focused instead on the object in Ser Davos’ open hand, and then held out his palm to accept it. When he returned to Dany, he dropped a tiny, perfect ruby into her cupped hands. As Dany’s skin touched it, she smelled heavy smoke and Volantene perfume and burning flesh. She thought she could see Kinvara’s face, only for a moment, when her fingertip pressed at the point of the stone.

“Where did you get this?” Daenerys asked. It was one of the rubies from Kinvara’s necklace, pried from its place and given some enchantment that Dany could not name.

“Lady Kinvara. She said she was a priestess of the Red God, like Melisandre was, but she was...” He looked back at Shireen, then up at Dany again. “She helped me save Shireen. I can’t speak for how, but she came to me in a dream, told me that Daenerys Targaryen was in the east. A queen who cared for the smallfolk and the children. One who would shelter her own blood. When I woke, that was sitting next to my head”

“And so the last daughter of the Baratheons has come to the last daughter of the Targaryens for aid,” Oberyn laughed. He reached out for the ruby, and Daenerys let him take it. He rolled it around in his hand as she had, but if he saw the truth in it then he made no reaction. “What do you want, Ser Davos? You will give up the girl’s claim in exchange for her life and safety from her own father?”

“Queen Daenerys,” Shireen was flushed red, but she still spoke up. Gently pushing Ser Davos aside, she stepped forward to speak for herself. “There is bad blood between our families, it is true. Yours and mine, and Prince Oberyn’s. But there was not always. 

“Orys Baratheon was Hand of the King to Aegon the Conqueror, and half-brother besides. Some say that Aegon started his Conquest because of the insult done to his beloved brother. And, centuries later, Rhaelle Targaryen was wed to Ormund Baratheon, and bore him a son named Steffon. It is said that your father and my grandfather were great friends in their youth. My uncle did you ill when he chased you and your brother into exile, it is true, but he is dead now. And we are all that remain.”

“Robert did more than oust Targaryens,” Oberyn interjected, “my sister and her children are dead.”

“My parents were not even betrothed during the Sack of Kings Landing,” Shireen said, meeting Oberyn’s gaze, “but even I know that Tywin Lannister sacked the city and stormed Maegor’s Holdfast. Robert gave them no justice, it is true, but we are not our parents.” She looked to where Tyrion lingered with Nymeria and a number of freedmen captains. “You have accepted Tywin’s son into your service, after all.”

Daenerys could not disagree with her. Nor did Tyrion look pleased at the comparison. He had not yet been party to any discussion of Westeros’ conquest or invited into private meetings of Dany’s counsel. The comparison between him and a Baratheon was not appreciated. But then, Shireen was unlikely to advise her on how to best save Cersei Lannister.

“And what of your father?” She asked, studying the young girl before her. Shireen was all of six-and-ten, to Dany’s twenty one. Even if she turned her away she could not see her returned to her death in Westeros.

“My father was a good man, once,” Shireen addressed her directly, “He believed that taking the Iron Throne was his duty once he learned that Cersei’s children were bastards. After the Battle of Blackwater he rode north. Melisandre convinced him he was to defend the Wall from White Walkers, but he saved the realm from the wildlings instead. Melisandre also convinced him to burn innocents. His own family. My uncle. Me. My mother.” 

Standing in her court in messy, well-worn clothes, with a handful of men at her back, Shireen did not look like a Westerosi noble. Her eyes were determined, though, and the set of her jaw did not shy when she looked up into the queen’s face. Dany was reminded of the story of Argella Durrandon for a moment. Shireen was of her blood just as much as Daenerys was of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror. 

“I cannot promise you that I will wish him dead, but he taught me my duty well. If you are my queen, then you are my queen. Give me my life and your protection, and lordship of Storm’s End; and I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Even by my father’s Red God, if it please Your Grace.”

Oberyn rested a hand on her shoulder and spoke gently, in the harsh tones of the Dothraki.  _ “Stannis is an unyielding man, but he was ever a man of his word.” _

Perhaps Dany trusted too much, but a queen who trusted no one was as foolish as a queen who trusted everyone. And, unlike Tyrion, Shireen was only a child.

_ “That is the kindest thing you have ever said to me about a Baratheon,” _ she answered, half-glancing at him. When she looked back at her guests, Shireen still awaited her answer. “My brother Rhaegar stole your uncle’s bride, and then my father asked for his head. Your uncle took the throne over the bodies of children, and your father burned innocent people. Let us not be like our families. Please consider this a formal apology from House Targaryen, for the ills we have done to your family.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Shireen was not the prettiest child, Dany thought, but she was brave and well-mannered and that mattered far more. “I am not lord of my house, but, for what it is worth, wrong was done to you as well.”

Daenerys rose to her feet, and made her way down the steps. She came to stand before Shireen, Ser Davos and her guards waiting nervously at her side, Oberyn and Mossador anxious behind her. “T argaryen and Baratheon have stood together for hundreds of years, since dragons landed in the Sunset Kingdoms. We are the last heirs of our houses. Daughters of fathers who were not fit to be king. But we will not be as they were. We will not lead our houses to ruin.

“Shireen of House Baratheon, I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I'm posting a lot, but it's the holidays, right? I can be picky later.
> 
> Besides, I answered all my comments so now I'm sad I can't answer more.


	63. Tyrosh VII

It was the hour of ghosts when the crunch of feet over snow sounded in the yard. Stark men bearing torches had left the Great Hall and crossed the castle’s courtyard, only to return shortly afterward, heavier and slower. 

Dawn had touched the sky when Kinvara ventured out of the rooms she had been given in the Guest Hall. She had spent most of the night in a reverie before the fire, where images of dragons, spread wings and snarling fangs, had occupied her thoughts. By the time she let the fire go out, darkness had encompassed the room, the candles long-since burned down, and the only light was from the glow of torches held by the patrolling Stormlords and the first touch of sunlight. The sunlight was not yet peeking over the outer walls when Kinvara crossed the smooth snow in the courtyard on her way to the sept.

It had been some time since she had been in one. It was a humble thing, recently rebuilt under Sansa’s orders with the support of a large number of Stormlords, even if not Stannis’ direct support. It was wooden, with seven walls and seven altars, each bearing a small figure crudely carved by the men to represent one aspect of the Seven among the candles. It was a far cry from the crystal windows and massive stone forms in the Sept of Baelor, or, at least, it had been once.

In the center of the room lay the body of Jon Snow. He wore simple clothes, and a sword was lain across his chest, atop the dark, ragged blanket which covered him. At his side lay the white direwolf that had followed him all the way from Beyond the Wall. 

At the doorway of the sept stood Sansa Stark, in a hooded cloak with fur long around the shoulders and a party of men just behind. She was speaking with Tormund Giantsbane and a pair of his companions, as well as the black brother who had brought his fellow’s body to Stannis. 

“It ain’t the way to do things,” Tormund said, as she approached. “Untied and out in the open like this. What if he rises?”

“You must understand, these are our funeral customs,” Sansa replied, voice firm. “Most of the men would like him to wait seven days in the sept, and because of the reaction of your people we will only wait this one day. He has not “risen” in all this time, why would he now?”

“You southroners, you don’t understand,” Tormund grunted. “Jon Snow saved us, he did, that’s why we brought him back to his father’s tribe, refused to let him rot out next to his black crows.”

“The cold took one of Tormund’s sons,” Karsi, a woman of the Frozen Shore, said. “He just up and died one night, and rose pale with blue eyes. Tormund had to see to him himself. Do you want that to happen to your brother? Or for the little one to see it?”

Sansa hesitated, grief clear in her eyes. “I will make sure that it does not happen. I will set guards and stay myself until Jon is burned. One day, that is all we ask.”

Dim Dalba shook his head. “The girl doesn’t understand. She never will.”

“You’re right,” Sansa agreed, “I don’t. I’m sorry for what has happened to you, Tormund, I am, and your people as well. But I could never understand watching the dead rise up and walk. How many could? It will not happen to Jon, though. I will not let it.”

Grumbling, the wildlings gave in. As they left, looking back as they went, Kinvara approached the Lady Regent. At the sight of Kinvara waiting next to the gate, she smiled in her polite way. It was the smile that had saved her in Kings Landing, not the one she wore for Rickon. 

“Lady Kinvara, I wasn’t aware you would be joining us.”

“It is the duty of a servant of R’hllor to oversee death pyres and funeral customs. I had thought you might prefer myself to Melisandre, as there is no septon here.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” Sansa acknowledged, “but the wildlings wish to perform their own ritual come dusk.”

She suspected that the wildlings wanted to perform their own ritual right now, but did not disagree. “Still, I will join you for my own sake.”

Sansa stepped back into the sept, her nervous men spreading out, hands on their swords. Kinvara wondered if they were wary of the dead or the wildlings. She followed as Sansa went to stand next to her brother, staring down at his pale face. “I was cruel to him, you know?”

“You were a child,” she replied, looking at the sword he held. It was Valyrian steel, with the head of a wolf. They likely did not mean to burn it, but where Sansa had found it to give to her brother to hold during his vigil she did not know.

“I always called him my half-brother, and I told Arya too as well. It hurt him, I know.” Sansa paused, and Kinvara thought she might have been trying not to cry. “Mother was so angry at him. She never said such aloud, but we all knew. She discouraged us from playing with him, even when father disapproved. I thought so much of how much having him here must hurt her… but that was not Jon’s fault.”

Kinvara thought of Castle Black, and a shattered Sansa Stark in its courtyard. “He would forgive you.”

“He was ever kind,” Sansa’s voice was soft. “I was so happy to go to Kings Landing; I was such a fool. I wish that father had married me in the North and forbidden me to go. I wish… I wish I could see them one more time.”

“You will, one day.” 

Sansa managed a smile, although she did not quite manage to hide the bitterness. “Is that what your Red God says? We will all be together again after we die?”

“I have seen it,” Kinvara promised. How often Melisandre said it, and Sansa had not believed. 

~oOo~

Daenerys spent the early hours of the morning with her ladies.

Had she been born Princess Daenerys, daughter of one king and sister to another, she and Rhaenys would have had many highborn companions in Kings Landing. Shireen, Dany’s second cousin, would almost certainly have been among them. She would have been a marriage candidate for Elia’s Aegon and any younger sons Rhaegar might have had, and much of the realm would have wanted her hand as well for the opportunities her children would have had. Targaryens tended to marry their blood back into the family.

Instead of delicate and clever Westerosi ladies, Dany had noble Qezza and fierce Nymeria; Shireen with her hair long over her shoulders and Irri with her son in her arms. At some point, Lucerys had also joined the group, mostly due to Nymeria, and currently, he was braiding copper coil into Nymeria’s long black hair, chattering merrily. Irri had done Dany’s braids before her babe woke, but no one had offered to aid Shireen. The girl sat in a corner, beside Dany’s vanity, shielding her face with the drape of her hair as she ran a brush through it.

“Lady Shireen,” She startled, looking up quickly as Dany left her seat, “let me help you with your hair.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Flushed, Shireen accepted the place that Dany had left, and watched in the mirror as Dany pulled her long hair over her shoulders to her back. She took a dragonbone comb, a gift Oberyn had found in Volantis, all delicate black bone, from its place and began to untangle her hair. Even three generations removed, it was obvious that Shireen had Targaryen blood. Her hair was straight and thin like Dany’s own, rather than thick and wavy like Sansa Stark’s or soft with springy curls like Olenna Tyrell’s.

“How do you keep your hair?” Qezza still kept hers in the towering styles of Old Ghis, while Irri’s soft twists had turned into a thin braid over lower, loose hair with the leading of her  _ khas. _

“Long, Your Grace.” She did not seem quite sure of herself. Her hands were folded in her lap, and even in the mirror, she did not look straight at Dany. 

“Is that the style in the Stormlands?” Few of the Westerosi women she had known had kept their hair in the styles of their homelands. Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark had cut theirs short with the coming of the true cold, Arya mimicking her mother’s Riverland-born style and Brienne slicking hers back under her helm. Jon had once suggested that Sansa’s way of styling her hair upset their sister due to it resembling Cersei Lannister’s, but Dany could not speak for that. The Cersei she had known had had her hair shorn by the Faith. 

“No, they braid it long and pin it to their head. I prefer mine down.” Shireen was lovely. Dany had found her a soft yellow dress with cream underskirts and a dark belt, and it looked far better on her than the dull grey she had arrived in. She was becoming something of a conversationalist, as well. Dany suspected it was Nymeria’s influence. “Your hair, Your Grace, is it an Essosi style?”

“The Dothraki wear a bell in their hair for every victory. If they are ever defeated, they cut their hair.” She watched Shireen’s eyes flicker to the bells in her hair, watching in the mirror as they chimed every time Dany moved her head, counting them.

Daenerys thought that Shireen could be more traditionally beautiful if she had desired it, but it did not seem like anyone had ever taught her how. Like this, her hair draped over her shoulders, straight and plain, her square jaw and large ears were put on show. It also only half-hid the greyscale that she sought to disguise. Across half one cheek and well down her neck, her flesh was stiff and dead, the skin cracked and flaking, mottled black and grey and stony to the touch.

If Dany had free rein, she would have brought the front of her hair back, pinned it high with jewels benefitting a Targaryen, and left it to flow down her back. It would add a beautiful accent to the dress she wore. Still, it was not she who had to wear it, so she did as Shireen requested.

From the other side of the room, Irri watched, curled up on Dany’s bed with her son dozing on her chest. When she spoke, she kept her voice low.  _ “You should not touch her, Khaleesi. She is unclean.” _

_ “Peace, Irri,”  _ Dany answered,  _ “The healers of the Lands of the Andals say that greyscale stopped during childhood will never spread.” _

_ “The youngest of the Dothraki would tell you that the curse sleeps, only to wake again.”  _ Irri insisted. All of the Essosi among Dany’s people had been nervous around the girl, but Dany had thought they would quickly see that the greyscale was not spreading down Shireen’s neck and thus calm.  _ “She is not clean.” _

_ “Such things are known in Meereen as well,”  _ Qezza volunteered, also in Dothraki. Shireen glanced at her, curious. The harsh tongue indeed sounded odd from the throat of a Meereenese girl.

Nymeria had listened quietly, sorting out their words with her own limited Dothraki. Then she spoke, boldly, in the High Valyrian every Westerosi noble learned as a child. “I have never seen a case of greyscale stopped during childhood spread. Perhaps the Dothraki did not have the ability to stop it, but the maesters do.

_ “It is not right.” _ Irri repeated, frowning as a violent blush spread across Shireen’s face. Dany could sympathize, she had often wished Oberyn and his daughters had a touch more tact.

“If you wish to worry over something,” Nymeria returned, “why not that her father tried to murder Daenerys as a babe instead of a dead disease?”

“What do you mean, tried to murder her?” Qezza asked, accent still more Meereenese than Volanteen. 

“Her father is the brother of the man who took Daenerys’ throne. After her father was dead, he was sent to capture her pregnant mother and bring her to that king.” Nymeria was staring as Shireen in the mirror, Dany noted. The girl’s neck was red with shame, and she said nothing to dispute her claim. 

This, Dany reflected, was not about Rhaella and Viserys. “You are angry.”

“Of course I’m angry!” Nymeria turned her head to Dany, only for Lucerys to touch her chin and shift it up so he could continue. The simplicity with which Nymeria moved did not match her tone. “The Baratheons allowed my aunt and her children to be murdered because of the Lannister’s jealousy. It was not Elia who stole Robert’s bride, not Dorne who called for his head. Yet she receives mercy because she is not her uncle? Where was the queen’s mercy for her innocence, and that of her unborn daughter? Where was Elia’s mercy? Aegon was not yet two years old, what had he done, that he did not deserve mercy?”

“I am not Robert Baratheon.” Dany interrupted her. “I will not take the throne over the bodies of children.”

“My father said that Stannis was a man of his word,” Nymeria returned. “His word is that he would have murdered you in your mother’s belly. Why do you do so much for those who would not help you if given the chance?”

“I will do what is right. Do you think I freed slaves because of what they could do for me? That I could not have gained more by accepting the bribes of the slavers?” 

Silence. Nymeria, angry and stalled, stared at her, seeking the words to continue without insulting her. Irri had gone very quiet, rocking the infant in her arms as he fussed, watching them with wide eyes. Lucerys and Qezza were calmer than the Dothraki woman. They had had less in their lives to fear than she, and more chance to listen to political arguments.

“That is why you follow Her Grace, isn’t it?” Shireen’s gaze had been fixed on the vanity since Nymeria had started speaking, too nervous about her standing and ashamed of her family to disagree with the Dornishwoman. Now she had half-turned where she sat to look at Nymeria. “For Elia. For justice for her children. It isn’t why everyone follows her. Many of the slaves in the Bay of Dragons or Tyrosh or half the world between would not have raised a finger to help Her Grace and Prince Viserys had they been free men. Still, she saved them. They follow her because she is the Queen Who Cares, not because she is Valyrian or Targaryen or King Aerys’ daughter.”

“They would not have killed her either.” Nymeria was seething. It was not that Dany did not understand, only that lingering too long here was madness. Was she to destroy every house that could have helped her and did not, Martell and Lannister, Rosby and Hightower, alike? Where did it stop? Should only House Darry be left unharmed, to claim all of Westeros for themselves?

“No one has claimed that my father was a good man.” Shireen addressed Nymeria directly. “I thought he was, once. He was strict but fair, and he always did his duty. He cared for me although I was sickly and not the son he wanted. He was not the man I thought he was. You wish to judge me for his crimes, and him for his brother’s. Many would. Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon chief among them. But we do not follow them for good reason.”

“Do you think there aren’t those who would have refused to kill children? My father would have. That is why he spoke for you.”

Shireen’s smile seemed almost sad. “Perhaps he should have been king, in King Robert’s place.”

“He would have been a better king than any Westeros has had since,” Nymeria scoffed, “but that is not an option we had.”

“And do you think I chose to be born my father’s daughter?”

“Enough,” Daenerys intervened before Nymeria could stand. “What you say is true, Stannis Baratheon is not a good man, but he is not here. Shireen is not her father, just as I am not mine.”

Lucerys had watched most of the discussion in silence, but now he tipped the comb he had been using to sort through Nymeria’s hair in her direction and said in his best Common, “She’s right, you know.”

“About what?” Dany asked. Lucerys was not the type to intervene in an argument among her advisors. He would flirt with Oberyn, listen to Tyrion’s woes, steal Nymeria’s riding boots, and give long, fond stories of cultural differences in the Free Cities when Dany became frustrated. It was his way of integrating himself in the group, associating himself with as many as he could. But never did he willingly enter an argument.

“The Dothraki follow the strong, yes,” he finished the last of Nymeria’s hair, and she pulled the thick braid over her shoulder to inspect it, “but how many khals had slaves who cared about them? Who would have stayed if they were freed? You can conquer the Free Cities from Volantis to Norvos, as Valyria of Old once did, but the Freehold was never loved as you are. The nobles fear the sight of dragon wings, but the freedmen worship them.”

“I did not do it because I wanted them to follow me.” Daenerys replied, wary. It did not feel right to claim she deserved to be worshiped because she had given men what they deserved all along.

“What you said in Astapor, do you remember?” Qezza asked. The girl rarely spoke up about anything. She was a devoted handmaiden to Lucerys’ politician. She kept Daenerys’ quarters and helped her order clothes, had baths fetched and jewelry cleaned. Her eyes went to the door, where two Unsullied guard stood with helmet and spear. “The Unsullied do.”

Qezza’s gaze Mossador seemed to have not noticed, but when Dany’s eyes caught his he answered the unspoken question. " _ Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see." _ There was no hesitation in his tone, and Dany wondered if it would have been the same with every man who had been there that day to see Drogon burn the slavers.

“You did not have to spare their children. Kraznys’ son walked away from the plaza that day. You could have put the city to the torch and who would blame you? What they did in that city… who would blame you?”

“They were only children,” Dany protested. “They are not responsible for their parents’ sins.”

“Nor were Rhaenys and Aegon,” Nymeria said.

“Or Viserys and Her Grace.” Shireen agreed.

“If I start killing children for the sins of their parents when does it stop?” Dany asked. “Am I to kill Oberyn for Daeron I’s death, or Ellaria for that of Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys? Should I wipe out the Great Houses because they rebelled, or did not help Viserys and I when we were in exile? What kind of world would I be creating?”

“The world we have,” Nymeria offered.

“If I am to remake the world anew, then this is where we begin.”

~oOo~

Kinvara had stolen a candle from the shelf meant for worshipers of the Seven, and lit it at the head of the sept. She stood where she could see both the fire and the body, watching as castle denizens and smallfolk filtered in and out to see Lord Ned’s son. She had meant to watch the flame, but, standing next to the body of Jon Snow, all the Lord would show her was Daenerys. 

It was nearing noon when Stannis arrived. He had with him only two guards, and Kinvara wondered if Melisandre knew he was there. Sansa had been greeting those who came all day, and she offered a curtsey to her king. “Your Grace, thank you for coming.”

“Snow was a good man,” he said, “as your father was. When I take the Iron Throne I will do all I can to see him returned to you as well.”

“It would mean much to us.”

His wife might have lingered to make social niceties, but Stannis only visited the body for the sake of being seen. She did not know the discussions that had happened between him and Melisandre, of late, but he did not even glance at her. “Lord Eddard was a good man, as was Snow. I offered him a lordship once, and Winterfell, and he refused them.”

“Jon was very much like our father, Your Grace. Thank you.”

He was the first Stormlord to appear, but not the last. A few that had worked directly with him at the Wall also appeared to give their regards. It was true that most of those who worshiped the Faith of the Seven had a seven day vigil, but insisting upon one had done more for Sansa than merely satisfying religion. It had given her a way to see who were sympathetic to her, something near impossible to determine with her limited access to the Stormlords. 

The day was growing late when Lord Beric and his squire turned up at the door. Beric’s social cues had grown stiff, but he still nodded politely to Sansa as they entered. “I did not know your brother, but I knew your father. I’ve come to pay tribute to his son.”

“Jon would have been glad to know you came to see him,” Sansa let them enter, and allowed them to stand beside her brother. She had been on her feet for most of the day, but offered no complaint. It was Jon Snow she thought of, not herself. Kinvara had not even seen her stop to eat.

“I wish I had been able to see your father home as well. I was in the Riverlands, then, and I could not.”

“I do not know that it could be helped.” Sansa said, voice quiet. After a moment, she made visible effort to brighten. “In Kings Landing, there were many reports of your death at Mummer’s Ford. I was pleased to see you had lived.”

He looked at her, solemn, the shadows from the candles making his face seem long in the darkness. His voice was gruff, but his words were polite enough. “They weren’t exaggerated. The Mountain killed me.” Beric lifted his hands to his tunic, pressing in on a certain spot that gave as if nothing was behind it. “He drove a lance through my chest.”

Something in the fire… twisted, and Kinvara stopped to look. The flame was a roaring river past a grove of ash, the ground scorched black. Beric Dondarrion sat up, and when his eyes opened they were not the milky white of the dead but violet. Kinvara did not understand. All her visions today had been of Daenerys. While that was indeed odd on the day of Jon Snow's funeral, of all days, this was different.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the door of the sept opening. Sansa was speaking to Beric, but she turned to look. The sept was small, made smaller by the three guards that Sansa had insisted upon being inside with her. There simply was not enough room for a crowd of people, even with Kinvara standing between two of the altars. Her expression of polite interest changed the instant she saw who had opened the door.

“I asked that you not come to the vigil.”

Melisandre was framed by two knights. Her copper hair was loose around her shoulders, and the ruby at her neck glowed in the dim light of the sept. As she stepped closer, Sansa bristling all the while, Kinvara noted she smelled of yew smoke and anise. She must have been long in prayer before coming to the sept. “I had no choice. The Lord of Light has a plan for Jon Snow. He cannot serve it in a crypt.”

Five years ago, Catelyn Tully’s little girl would have stepped aside, would have bowed to the wishes of another. Lady Stark did not so much as flinch. “Guards,” she said, “escort the lady out of the sept.”

Ser Brynden brushed her to the side before the struggle could start, standing in front of his niece with his sword in hand with an expression that did not broker argument. Starks and Stormlords scuffled for a moment, more a knight’s duty to protect his charge than any willingness to fight. As they did so, Beric and his squire were crowded up against an altar, and the boy stumbled. The sword across Jon Snow’s chest slipped to the floor, and the fire from the Stranger’s candles were mirrored in the black steel like lightning across a dark sky.

And suddenly, Kinvara understood.

Melisandre and her knights had been herded to the entrance, the Blackfish speaking loudly enough to cover her protests. She caught only a hint of his words, but the sword still in his hand spoke volumes. Sansa had remained in the inner part of the sept, her eyes catching on the fallen sword as she turned, the dragonflies on her gown glinting in the light from the door. 

Thoros’ knight knelt to fetch the blade, and from where she stood Kinvara could see the ruin of his throat and the just-visible dried blood seeping across his skin further to the right of the lance wound. Upon his head, above his left ear, his temple was caved in. As he placed the sword upon Jon Snow’s chest, he got a good look at his face. “He looks so much like his father.”

“Even my mother thought so,” Sansa acknowledged. If she saw the look that crossed Beric’s face when he spoke, she did not mention it. It was all Kinvara could focus on.

“Lord Eddard was a good man,” Beric said, as if to himself. “I wouldn’t be here without him, seems like it’s time I returned the favor. Tell him for me, when he wakes up? Tell him what your father did for the people. Remind him of what kind of man your father was.”

“Wait-” Sansa said. She took one hesitant step forward, toward Beric, but he did not look up at her. Behind him, his squire hovered, unsure if he should step in. Resurrecting six times changed people. Beric did not seem to notice either the young man or the lady’s voice. 

“You forget, you do. I held a castle on the Marches once, and there was a woman I was pledged to marry, but I could not find that castle today, nor tell you the color of that woman's hair. Who knighted me? What were my favorite foods? It all fades. Sometimes I think I was born on the bloody grass in that grove of ash, with the taste of fire in my mouth and a hole in my chest, and Thoros was my mother."

Sansa was speechless, as wide-eyed as she had ever been leaving Winterfell for the first time. Edric Dayne reached for his shoulder as Sansa said, “What happened to you?

He did not answer.

Instead, he took the other man’s face in his hands and said in his Stormland-tinged Common Tongue. “From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

The Lightning Lord put his lips to Jon Snow’s. 

And there, in a little sept resurrected from the ashes of Winterfell, surrounded by the cold of a winter that could last a generation and the servants of a fire god as witnesses, the flame of life passed from him. 

And he rose.

May the Lord of Light protect them.

He rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked to call this chapter “you’re all going to be mad at me" while it was in production.
> 
> Really, though, I've read a ton of Dany stories where when things get tough the author gets nervous. We have a plan, though, and we'll get through this.


	64. Tyrosh VIII

Before Tyrosh’s Speakers had been fully implemented, Daenerys had ridden through most of the city with only a handful of Unsullied guards and a dragon winging overhead. Maidens had touched her horse’s sides and asked her to marry them. Mothers had forced themselves through her guard to beg her to help find their children. One man had flung himself in the path of her mare and wept until she had agreed to bless him.

Some people had been angry, mostly former masters, but a few of the poorer freemen as well. The vast majority, however, had cheered her arrival, and that of the carts of food that followed her wherever she went. It had not been just the food that they had been pleased to see. Only a handful of attacks had occurred, and most were prevented by the Unsullied; although there had been one eventful experience when Drogon had snatched a rider and his mount right off the streets before they could even reach her guards. More than once, though, her assailant had been detained by the crowd before they could come close to her.

Now the Tyroshi freedmen had many remedies for their concerns, but no less love for their resident dragonlord. Dany still enjoyed riding through her streets and visiting her food delivery sites, and listening to those who might never make it to the audience room of a queen. Little children who did not know they needed shoes because they had never before had them, and old women who could no longer leave their beds but had never before known freedom a day in their lives.

Today she came to one of the less fortunate parts of the city, where men who had been soldiers now worked to remove the weakest of the makeshift houses and replace them with something that would not fall upon their occupants. Dany halted in the little plaza built there, with Ser Jorah on her left and Nymeria on her right, her companions following close behind. Even Shireen had joined them today, riding a lovely black mare from Dany’s herds. As she dismounted there was a commotion in what was by far the largest of the buildings in this section of the city, and a woman with a lined face and tired eyes came to the doorway. 

Behind her skirts, small children peered out at Dany. By way of greeting, she said, “You are welcome here, Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Are you Orolla?” Dany asked her. She had not hand-picked each of her Speakers, but each of them was well-trusted by the people they were given to care for. As always, Dany was available for any complaints, and she had heard none here.

“I am.” Her accent was closer to Volantene than Tyroshi, but she spoke the bastard tongue of the city flawlessly. “I had not thought to see you here.”

“I have come to see if I can help in any way.” Dany motioned to the wagons that had accompanied her. “And I have brought things for you and your people. Toys for the children. Fabric for clothes. What shoes I could have made in the time we have had.”

The woman wore clothes that had once been lovely, but had not been given to her by any master. Now they were worn and patched. “You have helped more than any of us could imagine. There are children here who would not be alive today without your food and your dragons. Your men gave us bread and medicine, and courage besides. I was a whore when you came to Tyrosh, and now I am a steward of your city. Come and see.”

The inside of the building had no tables. Even so those clustered in small groups, eating broth and bread, did not seem upset. They sat on the floor or cloaks or blankets, and as Orolla led her through the room, a low mummer grew in her wake. The woman seemed to be leading her toward the back of the building, but they were delayed when a little girl rose from her meal and caught at Dany’s skirts. 

She could not have been more than five, and had the look of a Tyroshi native. Still, she looked up at Dany and said,  _ “Mhysa!” _

“Hello little one,” Dany knelt to the girl’s level, her guide hovering next to her, “how are you?”

Her mother was there a moment later, flushed and scrambling. “Erla! Forgive her, this one had stepped away for only a moment.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Dany assured the flustered mother, smiling up at her. “Is she your daughter?”

“Yes, m'lady. Queen. T-”

_ “Mhysa,”  _ Erla repeated firmly, still clinging to Dany. Her mother did not quite seem brave enough to pull her away when Daenerys had not rejected her.

“My name is Daenerys. Tell me, is all well here? There is sufficient shelter and food? Is there anything I can do for you and the people here?” 

“This one is called-”

“Please, my. My name.”

“My name is Dorina,” Erla’s mother said. Dany stood, allowing Erla to grip at her hand. She had to look up at Dorina. The woman looked light she might be of Myrish descent, but her hair was the pale silvery-blonde of Valyria. “We are as well as we can be.”

That did not sound to Dany like a ringing endorsement. “The city is still recovering, but I have brought supplies for the people here and toys for the children. If there is anything you need, let me help you.”

“You let me keep my children, and returned my son to me.” Dorina said at last. “Their father died in the fighting, and you sent men to distribute food and find us shelter so we did not go hungry. There is a weaver that employs this one now. She gives me coin once a week. It is all I could ask for.”

_ “Here, perhaps you would like to hold this, instead of the queen’s leg.”  _ Ser Davos spoke in the Common Tongue, but the toy in his hand was unmistakable. It was a cloth doll with red hair, and Erla took it eagerly, a smile blossoming over her face.

Dorina was uncertain still, both of speaking to Dany and of this new man, so Dany translated for him. “Ser Davos does not speak Valyrian, but he means you no harm. She is welcome to the doll.” She was aware of the eyes upon her, so she lifted her voice to speak to the room at large. “You all may visit the wagons, and ask for whatever you need.”

As many rose to their feet, Orolla, who had watched all of this, said. “There are not many queens who would share the plunder of a city with its slaves.”

“There are no slaves, and there are no masters.” Dany replied. “And it is not plunder I offer. Those who were freemen I give food and shelter, as all men should have. Those who were slaves I give the things they worked for. No longer will slavers enjoy what others create; those who do the work should have the rewards of it.”

Something like a smile was on Orolla’s face, if only briefly. They left the people to investigate what had been brought. Dany’s men and the workers would ensure no violence occurred and that the gifts were fairly distributed. Ser Barristan trailed them as Orolla showed what the city’s wealth had gone to create. She kept a storeroom of food, and a stock of clothes and blankets. There were scrolls of parchment neatly tucked into a desk that showed which houses needed to be rebuilt and which could hold more people. 

Finally they reached the smaller building where the sick and wounded came to find aid. One of the first things Dany did in any city was to spread word that she would pay well for healers. Often it started with only a handful of red priests, but soon local healers and midwives, hedge wizards and woods witches, came to collect coin and tend to the city. There were two here, a woman and an old man, who watched closely as Dany entered the tent. 

Shireen and Nymeria had found their way here as well, speaking to people across the room. There were nearly twenty people here, from a young boy with a cut on his hand to a heavily pregnant woman to a man with a leg missing. Dany went to each of them in turn. She listened to their stories and held their hands, and even blessed the pregnant woman’s belly with an old Westerosi prayer when she was asked.

Last of all she came to the man who was missing a leg. His hair was dyed a bold purple, and he was covered in bright blankets. He was already speaking to Shireen, half-hidden in her cloak and scarf, but as she came to his side, he smiled up at her, “You honor us, glorious queen.”

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage.” She came to stand at his bedside. Most of the people here stayed only briefly, but he seemed quite settled. “You know my name, and I do not know yours.”

“I am Nakiros of Tyrosh.” He said, with a great smile. “Here I was born a free man, and here I was sold by my mother into slavery, and here Daenerys Stormborn set me free again.”

“Were you in the fighting, then?” 

“In a way.” He patted the blanket so it folded to show where the cut off point of his leg was. “When I was still a slave I knew what master my sister had been sold to. When you came to Tyrosh, I left my master’s house in search of her. When I found her, her master’s property was in an uproar, but he still maintained control. They tried to have her punished for trying to flee. I stopped that, and the other slaves saved me from the guards.”

“I am glad you found aid.” There were makeshift crutches next to his bed, but Dany would have a woodcarver come to fit him for proper ones in the days to come.

Nakiros shrugged. “I almost did not. My sister and I returned here, because this is the only place we knew for free men to live. Our mother is dead, but there was shelter enough to protect us through the capture of the city. It is difficult to chase slaves when the Breaker of Chains has come.” He motioned to the healer woman across the room. “By the time someone found this place and brought me here, they had to remove the leg.”

“I am sorry to hear it. You were very brave.”

“They had dreamwine here. Not much, but more than anyone had before you. It was not so bad.” For a man bedridden, he was rather happy with his circumstances. “I only wish I could return to work.”

“Surely you can still make dye?” Shireen asked.

“I would have to find men to gather snails, and then I would have to milk them, salt them, and seep them.” He frowned at the thought of it. “It is unfortunate, because now is the best time to collect them.”

“What color do the snails produce?” Dany could tell by the brightness of his hair that whoever dyed it must have been excellent at the making of the dye.

“It depends on their diet. The wild ones, though, they generally produce purple.” 

Daenerys considered this. Tyrosh’s dye was one of her finest exports, and one of the things that kept ships coming to her harbor from the far east. “I have men who can gather snails,” she said, “if you can teach them to produce the dye, perhaps we can help each other.”

~oOo~

In the flickering light of the candles in Sansa’s solar, Jon Snow was pale and more than slightly frozen. His weather-beaten skin kept its tan, but he had a grey pallor over him. As if there was no blood flow to back up the color. He had come into the castle wrapped in Lady Sansa’s cloak, but now he was dressed in clothes that might have belonged to his lord father, a padded linen undercoat with a leather doublet, and a heavy, fur-lined cloak secured over his shoulders. At his side was the white direwolf that had trailed Sansa for so long.

He sat before Sansa’s desk, in the far chair from the door, the blankness of his face speaking to shock. Someone had given him a mug of ale, likely laced with something to keep him calm, and he held it in both hands as he stared into nothing. It was not long after he had been settled that the door opened without introduction to reveal Stannis Baratheon.

The would-be king stepped into the room with his ever-present scowl, but it fell from his face when he took in the occupants of Sansa’s solar. “What is this?” He said, looking to Sansa.

“That is what I asked, Your Grace,” she replied, standing from her chair, “We had agreed, for the honor and dignity of House Stark, that she would stop visiting my brother.” She looked over to Jon. “Although I cannot quite complain of Lord Beric’s presence.”

“He performed the Last Rite on Jon Snow,” Melisandre crossed the room to touch Stannis’ shoulder, eager to share the news. “He traded his life for Snow’s. It is as I have said, I saw him.”

“This seems like an imprecise method of foretelling,” Sansa interjected. “If you knew that Lord Beric would… revive Jon, then why did you spend so long attempting to do so yourself?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Melisandre was touching Stannis’ shoulder, and for once he seemed too distracted to push her away. His eyes hadn’t left Snow, who seemed unaware of the scrutiny. 

“Perhaps he does, but it seems he needs a new priestess. One who can properly foretell his signs. Your Grace? King Stannis.” He looked at her, then, tearing his eyes from Snow with visible effort and a backward glance. “You gave your word that your priestess would stay away from my brother. No matter how much she talks of her god and his favor, it was not she who saved him.”

“I did,” he said, now looking at Melisandre. He shifted so she was no longer touching him. “My apologies, Lady Sansa.”

She inclined her head. “I appreciate your assistance in retaking Winterfell and ensuring her protection, but it seems that having Stormland men guarding the castle has allowed this indiscretion. I would like to have Stark men take up the regular patrols.”

Melisandre had been so focused on her visions that she had disregarded the political realities that Stannis faced. Guarding Winterfell gave him a measure of control over the castle that most visiting kings did not have. And with Dragonstone taken by the Tyrells, Stannis had no proper seat. Relinquishing control to Sansa weakened his position.

“I understand your concerns. My men will work with your captain to arrange the exchange.” Melisandre’s triumph was not gone from her features, but her smile was, and she kept her hands from Stannis’ armor. “However it happened, Jon Snow is alive again. He is Eddard Stark’s eldest surviving son. Does he intend to stay in Winterfell?”

“No.” Everyone’s attention was drawn to Snow. He was shivering even next to the fire and with a hot mug in his gloved hands. “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa. I have to go back to the Wall.” Jon looked to Sansa. “I don’t know if we have the men-”

Sharp knocking sounded on the door. One of Sansa’s men stepped forward, as Stannis moved away. He opened the door far enough to see into the corridor, but no sooner had he turned the knob than it was jolted out of his hand. A large black wolf darted across the floor to Snow, tail wagging like a hound puppy’s. He reached out a hand to the wolf’s neck, cradling his long snout, petting him as if it was an instinct and not an action. “Shaggydog…”

Then he lifted his eyes. In the door stood the little Stark lord, and for the first time since Sansa had crawled onto the stone slab holding his corpse to cling to him, warmth entered his face. Snow let go of the wolf and found his legs, dropping his mug and seeming not to notice. “Rickon?”

The brothers met in the middle of the room, and Jon lifted the boy off his feet and into an embrace. One hand pressed to the back of Rickon’s auburn curls, still shaking, Jon managed. “I thought you were dead.”

Rickon’s face was buried in the wolf fur around his Snow’s neck, voice muffled by the tightness of his grip on his brother. “I thought you were too.”


	65. Tyrosh IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is trapped in Tyrosh, but her work has not stopped.

At eight months pregnant, Daenerys’ dragon rides were only for pleasure.

She handled little politically, the city now settled into the control of her counsel, and she tended to remain inside the comfort of her manse. The smell of the city made her sick, and the only time she was truely at ease was with her children. Dany could fly, if she pleased. In Drogo’s  _ khalasar _ she had ridden until the day her husband fell from his horse, and her saddle was made well enough to support her extended belly. Drogon was unusually careful anytime they did fly, but her friends worried for her.

It was mostly the discomfort that kept her in one place. Dany had been having irregular contractions for some time now, and was almost always short of breath even when reclining. It was not this, or the swelling in her feet or the cramps in her legs, that worried her most. Sometimes she would relax against the heat of Drogon’s scales in her garden and press her hands to her belly, feeling for the stretching and kicking of the babe inside of her. 

But Rhaego had moved as well.

Dany was engaged in this pastime when voices and footsteps came from the patio of her manse. Nymeria, Qezza, and Lucerys were arguing over a plate of food, while Shireen followed at their heels, watching with what might be amusement. Her smile faltered when they rounded the wall to find the dragons watching them. Daenerys’ children had become somewhat overprotective as her energy waned. Drogon kept one eye on Oberyn at all times, and even Ser Jorah had to put up with a suspicious Viserion. Rhaegal, the wildest of the three, stalked everyone who came near their mother, and had once forced Oberyn to take a ship for business in favor of attempting to crawl into her room through her balcony. The only person the dragons did not harass was Irri and her little boy, who were allowed to come and go as they pleased.

Nymeria was well-used to this by now, and she ducked under Drogon’s snout to come closer. The other three were not quite so brave, only following when his head turned to follow her progress. Head draped over the black’s shoulders, Rhaegal’s eyes tracked their every movement. It was amusing, but the dragons were also the reason that the servants couldn’t be in the gardens when Dany was anymore. 

“I brought you lunch,” Nymeria had indeed. It was lamb, with a salad of raisins and carrots soaked in wine, and a hot flaky bread dripping with honey. It turned Dany’s stomach.

Qezza frowned sharply, “I told you we should have brought dog. The Graces of Meereen say that unborn puppy is best for late pregnancy.”

The mere thought of it made Dany have to cover her mouth with both hands. But then, so did the thought of horse roasted with honey and peppers, which was her favorite meal. Lucerys took the plate from Nymeria and moved it away from her. “They’re both quite mad,” he told her, Nymeria glowering all the while, “but is there anything you would like? You must eat, to keep your strength up.”

“Give me the bread,” Dany bid him, “I think it is the smell of the meat that upsets me. Shireen, come closer, the dragons will not hurt you.”

Nymeria and Qezza both turned to look at her. Shireen was hovering just outside of the reach of Drogon’s neck if he fully extended it, although she would be dead in a heartbeat if they actually wanted to hurt her. But they would not harm anyone that Daenerys did not want harmed. While Rhaegal’s was overprotective, they had become tamer as well; and sweet Viserion had never been one for unprovoked violence.

“You haven’t met them before, have you?” Nymeria asked. If she had, Dany did not remember it. When she was not accompanying Dany or Nymeria with her face covered, she tended to remain inside the manse. Daenerys would not have requested it of her, but Shireen was nervous of frightening the people. It was not so long since the grey plague had swept over the Free Cities, and it was well remembered by all but the youngest children. “The black is Drogon, Daenerys’ mount. He tries to act standoffish, but he’s pushover for lamb sausage. The white is female, her name is Viserion and she’s the clingy one. I thought she was trying to eat me once, but she just wanted chin scratches. And the green is Rhaegal. They’re the bastard.”

Dany laughed at that. Nymeria turned around at the sound, defensive. “They are! They’ve tried to steal food off my plate, like I wouldn’t notice a dragon bigger than the table sniffing about.”

“Drogon was worse than they are now when he was a hatching,” She pet the black’s leg at her side. “But he was always better at hiding it.”

“What about the salad? Qezza asked, looking at the remaining food as Dany nibbled at the bread. “If we take the lamb back can you eat that?”

“No,” she recoiled from the plate as Lucerys lowered it. “No the smell, it’s terrible.”

“Is it the lamb? The kitchens have a delicious chestnut soup.” Qezza offered. “Or is it that they’re warm? I can fetch greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. That was always my favorite.”

“I don’t know,” Dany shook her head. She wanted to be left alone with her children, but if she didn’t eat anything then Oberyn would spend half the night hovering. Twice already he had wanted to send for Ellaria, but Dany doubted that anyone would be able to make her feel better. 

“Get both,” Lucerys decided, handing over the plate when Qezza reached for it. 

“I will speak with the kitchen,” Qezza gathered her skirts in one hand to walk back up the stairs, pausing on the second step to look back, “Nymeria, give her the letter.”

Of late, Nymeria had styled her gowns after Dany’s. A ring around her neck made of slender snakes held up her neckline, but while Dany’s had been practical Nymeria had removed every bit of fabric that was reasonable, most of the back and two triangles at her waist. The fabric she had chosen was sheer enough to show all but the important bits. Daenerys knew that she was carrying at least three daggers on her, but where Nymeria had kept a properly sized letter in the gown was beyond her.

It was sealed with simple white wax that still made her skin crawl, but the sigil was pleasantly familiar. While the gold signet ring that had been her father’s had been sold long ago, the three-headed dragon was Daenerys’ personal sigil and was only seen on her communications. But from Qarth to Tyrosh, the freedmen had taken up the symbol of a dragon’s spread wings as their own. 

She had to open it to see who it was from, but no sooner had she broken the seal than she knew. That neat, perfectly-space script could belong to none other than Missandei of Naath. Dany unfolded the parchment. Missandei and Tyene were always thorough in their communications, but something was different today. Tyene had contributed only one paragraph, and while Missandei’s entry was longer it shared the same tone. 

Dany could not stop the smile that crept across her face. After five cities and nearly two years, it was the news she had waited for. When she looked up, Shireen had come closer, as she was bid, and was distracted by gingerly petting Rhaegal’s muzzle. Nymeria and Lucerys were staring at her, waiting. “Braavos has accepted our alliance, and the Iron Bank has acknowledged my claim as the rightful Queen of Westeros. They have agreed to wait until I have claimed the throne and reviewed the crown’s debt for repayment. Missandei sails for Tyrosh with a man named Noho Dimittis, a representative of the Iron Bank.”

~oOo~

Sansa’s final meetings with the wildlings had been held that morning, the lady in a fur-lined cloak and her brother in the black of the Night’s Watch. The embroidered direwolf across the front of her chest was in stark contrast to the living beasts that haunted her brothers’ footsteps. While these Starks of Winterfell had exchanged their goodbyes, the wolves had rolled about in the snow of the yard in excited play.

Kinvara had sat through the arguments between Stannis and Snow, and the allegiance-making of these wildlings to the late Lord Commander. She knew what they had agreed upon and promised, and she knew what they would do. She had seen the battle between the Watch and the wildlings, seen Bowen Marsh’s broken neck, and the blood staining the white wolf’s pelt. Instead of listening to the heartfelt goodbyes of the siblings-and-yet-not, she watched the direwolves in the yard. 

Ghost was the larger of the pair, and aptly named. His fur was as white as the bark of a weirwood, and for their leaves he had his red eyes. She had seen him, once, under the heart tree of the Winterfell godswood, while his master prayed to his gods, and she had known then the fate of the silent white wolf.

The black was smaller than his brother, with green eyes and shining fangs. The strongest trees were rooted in the dark places of the earth, and although House Stark had fallen she would grow again. His eyes were the eyes of the greenseer. Through careful questioning, Kinvara knew that none of the other wolves had such eyes, and although his brother may cast himself as one of the old gods it was not he alone who had the blood of the  Guēseilal in his veins.

It was during her inquiries about the direwolves that she had learned the fate of Sansa’s own wolf. The girl would have thought it cruel, but the story had caught her attention. Even during her own childhood there had been stories of seals who shed their skin and became beautiful human women, and of men who stole their skins and claimed them as a wife. The Lannisters had killed the direwolf, but had not taken her skin. They had captured Sansa, but not broken her wolf-blood. That had lain in Winterfell, awaiting her return.

The Lord did not always show his will in the fire. Sometimes he lay it in front of one’s face to be seen.

Kinvara was musing over the direwolves still late in the evening, while Sansa and her ladies worked on the current grain supplies. Whatever else she could say of Snow, he had convinced his sister of the war to come, and she had set about making plans. She would not be surprised if Stannis did not know what he had in Sansa Stark, what he gained by not having a boy of eleven with no experience ruling in charge of the castle. If he knew, he would likely have arranged to marry Sansa to himself, so perhaps it was best if he did not. 

Three sharp knocks came at the door, and the conversation in the room cut off. A Stark guard entered a moment later. “Lady Sansa, Lady Tarth has returned and requests an audience.”


	66. Tyrosh X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bountiful Harvest arrives in Tyrosh.

For some time, Daenerys had worried over Pentos. 

The city had no slaves, per her agreement with Braavos, but Dany herself had seen the servants that served in the manses of the magisters there. It would not do to wage a full scale war on the city, else Braavos would have done so already. Not only would it be more effective to politically destroy the interweb of contacts and trade that existed within the city, but it was far less likely to rebound in a quieter way. 

Not to mention that Dany was eight months pregnant, in no condition to conquer a city, and that the time of the White Walkers was rapidly approaching. She was trying not to hope, trying not to plan, had not even thought of names (not Rhaego, not Jaehaerya), but still, buried somewhere deep inside, she wanted to spend as much time with the babe as she could before she had to sail.

(She wanted to tell Westeros to handle her own impending doom and ungrateful lords, and return to the little house with the red door in Braavos. To Meereen, to the Great Grass Sea. But a queen belonged not to herself, but to her people. Even if her people did not want her.)

One morning, bright and early, while her children were stirring in the yard, dragonsong filtering through the streets of Tyrosh, and Daenerys herself sat on her terrace, humming an old tune that Viserys had sang to her as a little girl, two of her problems lifted their heads from the unknown and promptly solved themselves.

“ _ Mhysa _ ?” She looked up to find Mossador in her doorway. “A magister comes to the harbor aboard the  _ Bountiful Harvest _ . He seeks an audience with the queen.”

The  _ Bountiful Harvest _ , she knew that ship. Viserys had sold their mother’s crown in Volantis, to one of the Old Blood, and after all the money was gone they had sailed to Lys. Daenerys did not know what her brother had planned, but had followed him all the same. Not long after they landed in Lys, Illyrio’s men had found them. They had promised her brother aid and comfort, and the last Targaryens had boarded the  _ Bountiful Harvest _ and sailed to Pentos.

“Illyrio Mopatis.”

“Yes.” He said. “This man claims he knows you. Shall I see him to the council?”

Dany rose from her seat, her skirts falling around her legs. Her ankles and feet were swollen and painful, but she had soft skippers made to stretch and nowhere else to go. “Illyrio Mopatis is the man who gave me three dragon eggs. He has ever been a friend of the Targaryens. Bring him to my meeting room. I will see him there.”

She was not dressed for an audience. Her gown was red, more Martell than Targaryen, and was cut for her swollen belly. Dany did not feel a queen so much as the mother she was as she descended the stairs on Mossador’s arm, a guard of Unsullied flanking her. The room she had chosen was above the garden, well-lit by the morning sun, and large enough for her guard to spread out along the walls. 

Mossador saw her to the chair at the rear of the table, closest to the door. “Are you looking forward to seeing Missandei again?” She asked, as she released his arm. 

“She writes that she enjoyed Braavos,” he said, as she leaned back against the edge of the table, “but I think she wished to be here as well. Seeing her again will be like seeing home.”

“You could go home,” Dany looked up at him as she spoke. Mossador had been her constant companion for years. As the captain of her personal guard she saw him most of her day, and when he was off duty he was still responsible for the training and quality of the Unsullied tasked with her safety. He could not be so vitally important to her life and not have become her friend. “I would give you a ship to take you there if you wanted to go.”

“Perhaps one day I will return to my village on Naath, but the best thing I can do for them is to fight to end their captivity.” His eyes were much like his sister’s, warm and clever. “Until the day that all Naathi are free to return home, I cannot.”

“One day, you will be able to go home.”

“On that day, Daenerys Stormborn will no longer have need of me.”

She smiled at that. “I will always have need of you, my friend.”

A knock sounded on the door. Mossador called out assent, and the Unsullied on the other side opened it. Illyrio was much as she remembered him. He had a fat belly and a yellow beard, and he smelled heavily of perfumes made in Lys. When he smiled he had crooked yellow teeth. His eyes fell on her, sitting in the sunlight before the magnificent stone table, and he stepped toward her. “In Pentos a frightened child sheltered in my manse, now I find her enthroned as the queen of ancient cities and mother to slaves and dragons.”

“You are welcome here, magister.” Dany meant the words with all her heart. This man had sheltered she and her brother when all else in the world had turned them away. He had given her her children. “You have ever been a friend of the Targaryens.”

The Unsullied guard who had escorted him in returned to her, and a low voice came from behind her in the Astapori Valyrian the Unsullied favored as he spoke to Mossador. Ser Barristan glanced sideways at them, but said nothing. 

“I am so sorry for your brother, Your Grace,” Illyrio approached her under the watchful eye of her guards. She stood, still shorter than he by a head. “I tried to keep him in Pentos, but he insisted he must see his quest through.”

“Viserys was not a king. He could not have led an army even if Drogo gave him one. But you did well by him.” And he had. Viserys had feasted sellswords, but none would have followed an untried boy on the promise that perhaps he could take the Sunset Kingdoms. “It is not your fault. Won’t you come with me? I would introduce you to my children.”

“It would be an honor.” 

She led him down the corridors from her audience room, her on Mossador’s arm and he beside her, with four Unsullied and a knight trailing her. When they came into the yard, Irri was settled under one of the large, sweeping trees under which the prior owner of the manse had set tables, two Dothraki maidens at her side. Viserion was on her back, dozing in the warm morning sunlight, her body a crescent moon behind Irri’s tree. 

Illyrio eyed the women as they entered. “The Dothraki have free reign within the city?”

“They may come and go as they please,” Dany answered simply, “Irri is dear to me, and my children love her.” 

Irri looked up as they came closer, a frown touching her face and gone just as quickly. When her son caught Dany’s voice, he gurgled and smiled up at her. Dany leaned forward, allowing Mossador to balance some of her weight. “How is he?”

“Wonderful.” Irri considered the man beside Dany, and then looked at her handmaidens. “This is the magister that arranged the wedding between the  _ Khaleesi _ and  _ Khal _ Drogo. He gave her the dragon eggs as a wedding present.”

Illyrio had also given her Irri as a wedding present, but he said nothing about that. The girls stared up at him wide-eyed, and the Unsullied, who had all learned at least a bit of Dothraki in working with them, exchanged glances. The magister peered down at the baby. “A very handsome child,” he said, “what is his name?”

“The  _ khaleesi _ named him Vazzo,” Irri arranged the child closer to her as she spoke, covering his face with the blankets.

“A storm for Daenerys Stormborn,” Illyrio chucked, “Quite fitting.”

“And this is Viserion,” Dany added, distracting him from the boy and his mother. At the sound of her name, her daughter opened her molten gold eyes. When she found her mother awaiting her, she rolled over fully, only just missing Irri’s blanket. The Dothraki girls huddled closer to Irri, but she was unconcerned as the dragon extended her neck so her mother could pet her.

“The first dragon to be seen in one hundred and fifty years,” Illyrio said, watching as Daenerys pet the soft scales on Viserion’s muzzle. She did not mind Mossador on her mother’s arm, but she watched the magister carefully. “Will he allow me to touch him?”

“Viserion is female,” she told him, “and I do not know if she will allow it. You must ask her.”

“Will she kill me, if she does not like me?” Illyrio looked to her, hesitant.

“No. She will not hurt anyone I do not want hurt.” As Dany had said, when he reached a hand out to the dragon she huffed and pulled away. No one chased a dragon. Viserion lifted her head to avoid contact and Illyrio dropped his hand.

Although he had been snubbed, the magister’s awe was not dampened. He looked up at the cream scales on the underside of Viserion’s jaws as she rubbed her black claws along her neck. When she settled back into the sunlight Illyrio asked, “There were three eggs. Where are the others?”

Drogon was high above the island, perched on the highest point he could find and surveying the farms below him. Behind him, Rhaegal was chewing on some fatty sea beast that their brother had caught and flown across the island. Stubborn, picky Drogon had eaten the best parts of the creature, including the liver, his favorite part, and left the rest. With Viserion watching over their mother, he had remained with Rhaegal while they ate. 

“Away hunting. Rhaegal is green and bronze, and Drogon black and red. Viserion is the eldest, but also the smallest.” Rhaegal would have tried to snap at him, she did not add, as they did all new people, and Drogon would have glowered until he slunk from the garden or irritated the black dragon enough to stir and send him running. Neither had patience this last moon’s turn. “They will be back eventually. I’m certain I can keep you entertained until then.”

Illyrio laughed. “The only thing that could match the majesty of a dragon is the beauty of their mother.”

~oOo~

Kinvara spent most nights observing Stannis and Kings Landing in her fires, but tonight she sought something else. Something closer. 

In the doorway of her solar, Sansa came to an abrupt stop, her grey skirts melting from the orange fires. Brienne of Tarth awaited her, mug of ale in one hand, standing next to her desk. Despite the knight’s worn look, the drink was mostly untouched, and when her lady entered the room she sat it aside completly. “Lady Sansa.”

Her sole companion made no move to rise. Dressed in chainmail armor with a leaping silver trout emblazoned across the front, Brynden Tully met his niece’s gaze. He was a lean man, with a short beard and windburnt face, his once-auburn hair long since gone to grey. He carried an air of exhaustion that dimmed when he saw his niece. After a moment of silence, he nodded toward Sansa. “You look like your mother.”

The lady forced back whatever emotion had closed her throat. “Thank you, uncle. I am glad to see you.”

“Less than you might be,” the Blackfish scowled, as Sansa stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, “I’ve no army on offer. Edmure turned Riverrun over to the Lannisters, least he lose his new Frey-born heir. Only managed to smuggle me out before opening the gates.”

“Ser Jaime promised Lord Edmure that he would be taken as a highborn hostage at Casterly Rock, and his son would not be harmed if he turned over the castle.” Lady Brienne said, by way of explanation.

“The Kingslayer hardly knows what a highborn hostage is,” the Blackfish scowled at his own ale, and set the empty mug aside. “Honorable men do not threaten newborn babes or murder kings at weddings.”

“May the gods help them,” Sansa was distant for a moment, long enough for Brienne and the Blackfish to forget whatever personal argument had developed en-route to Winterfell. “I am sorry for your loss, uncle.”

“And yours. I lost a king and a sister, you a brother and a mother.” He motioned to the door, where Sansa had closed out her guards. “I am told that the North follows a new king now.”

“Should Robb live, none of us would have broken faith,” Sansa answered, a vehemence in her voice that Kinvara had only heard once before, when she demanded that her brother’s wolf be released. “But he is not. And the North must survive. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. And Winter Is Coming, Uncle.”

~oOo~

Dinner was hen stuffed with chestnuts, carrots, and prunes, peaches in honey, and cold fruit soup. Food meant for their queen’s unsettled appetite. At the high table, Illyrio at her left in a seat of honor and Oberyn in his usual place to her right, Daenerys picked over the soup, distracting herself with conversation to ignore that she could not eat food specifically prepared for her. Her Westerosi advisors and the commanders among the freedmen joined her table, even Grey Worm finding time to sit and eat tonight. It started off a quiet dinner.

It would not end that way.

Not long after the feast began, Tyrion appeared. At some point, while Daenerys had been in Astapor or Qarth, while she had been defending the rulers she had put in place, Tyrion had found a place for himself at her table. It had began with a cyvasse board, she was told. The Volantene had been eager to teach Dany, and Tyrion had gained more than a passing knowledge of the game as well. Here in Tyrosh, he was one of the few who could give Nymeria, who had played the game since she was a girl, a challenge. Ser Jorah also claimed that he had been useful in her absence. That earned him friendly conversation and simple tolerance. She had too much to focus on now to worry herself about Tyrion Lannister.

Dressed in pale gold, he settled in beside Nymeria and smiled politely across the table at their guest. “I must say, I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

Jorah, next to Illyrio, who became very suddenly interested in his Arbor gold, swallowed his bite of hen and carrot. “I wasn’t aware you knew each other?”

Tyrion paused, calculating, suddenly wary. “Yes, Varys and I spent some time in his manse in Pentos before sailing for Meereen.”

Daenerys looked between the men, the full weight of Varys’ betrayal striking her in the chest so sharply that she had to set her fork down and just breathe for a moment. Oberyn was staring at her from her side, alarmed at the sudden change. He was loyal to the realm. The realm. Her chest was tight. She curled a hand around her belly, suddenly fiercely protective, remembering the fear she had felt while this man tried to poison her. 

Varys’ smile was unhampered. “We are all friends in service of our queen.”

The words fell from her mouth unbidden. Once they were out, there was nothing she could do to take them back. “You tried to force Drogo to give Viserys an army by murdering me in Robert Baratheon’s name.” 

He had. He had tried to take advantage of the chaos of the Seven Kingdoms by bringing back a Targaryen king. Had Varys killed Jon Arryn, told Eddard Stark of Cersei’s betrayal, brought the realm to ruin for these ends? Why would he do that? What loyalties did he hold to her family? To the mad king who had summoned him across the Narrow Sea to serve in his court? He had been a rich man in Pentos. Illyrio had wed the maiden cousin of the Prince of Pentos, and Varys had an extensive spy network throughout the Free Cities. They had not needed the Seven Kingdoms.

And then, when exactly what Varys and Illyrio had planned had happened, and the last Targaryen had invaded Westeros with a Dothraki horde at her back, Varys had tried to kill her. For what? A bastard boy whose parents had ripped the realm apart. Who had escaped the carnage to be raised by the Starks? He could have simply set Bran Stark on the throne instead, and brought about the same end.

The worst thing, Dany thought, was that she was not meant to know this. That was why Illyrio was here. If Varys had not betrayed her for Jon Snow, Dany would still be a pawn in their hands. But Daenerys was not a pawn any longer. She was mother to dragons and slaves, the last heir to Old Valyria, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror. If she was a piece on the board, she was the queen. 

Jorah was half out of his seat, meal forgotten. Oberyn had a hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword, although his instinct was to remain next to her. Neither was necessary. A cluster of Grey Worm’s men had swarmed up behind both Illyrio and Varys, spears at the ready. In his seat, Tyrion had gone very still and silent, hoping to be overlooked. No one argued with her. No one said anything. They only awaited her orders. 

Varys cleared his throat. “Your Grace, forgive me, I don’t-”

“You do.” Daenerys was so very tired. “Arrest them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what Viserys intended in Lys, but if I had to guess he was going to sell Dany.
> 
> I wrote us book!Edmure, because like everyone else show!Edmure isn't his best self. 
> 
> And food symbolism.   
Prunes - seeing through deception.   
Peaches - false sense of security


	67. Tyrosh XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei arrives from Braavos.

Grey Worm took Illyrio’s ship with no resistance.

He had not hired soldiers to sail his ship, but sailors. Her crew was only barely armed to face pirates, they were not prepared for trained Unsullied to storm the ship nor were they willing to face dragonfire. Their captain turned the _ Bountiful Harvest _ over to her men with little prompting. Aboard they found bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh… and slaves. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, these were slaves. The city was full of "free bond servants", who were collared and branded like slaves in Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh. Although they were free men and women by law, the cost of their food, clothing, and shelter was made higher than the value of their service and they became indebted to their masters. It was these people that Illyrio had brought to her harbor.

Grey Worm took the sailors captive, anchored the ship with her wares at their docks, and brought the slaves to Daenerys. Most of them were male, within a few years of Dany’s own age. There were ten of them, fewer than a magister of Pentos would be expected to travel with in any city save Braavos. There was only one woman, blond and blue-eyed, fair and willowy. Had her eyes been violet and not blue, she would have looked almost exactly like Dany herself. Like her companions, she knelt before Daenerys and Oberyn, but her eyes caught Dany’s own before she fixed her gaze on the ground. 

“I know you,” Dany said. This was the girl who had been Illyrio’s favorite during her time in Pentos. One of the slaves who had helped bathe and dress her before she was presented to Drogo. Her name came easily to Dany. “Your name is Selah, isn’t it?”

“Yes, this one is Selah.” She did not look up.

“There is no need to kneel. Please, stand. All of you. There is no slavery in my cities.” Dany bid them. She herself was settled into the chair at the head of the table, one hand on her belly, Oberyn at her shoulder. He had offered to burn the ship down after putting Varys and Illyrio on it, but she thought it better to investigate. 

The girl stood, and the others followed, uncertain. One of the men, hair as bright as his companion’s, but with dark eyes, hesitated glancing at the Unsullied behind her, before he said, “There are no slaves in Pentos.”

“No?” Dany asked. “When you were brought from Lys, were you freed? Your collars taken from you? Given coin for your work? Could you leave Illyrio’s manor if you wished?” None of them responded, most keeping their eyes down as they had before. She considered the people before her, frowning. “Do you know who I am?” 

“You are Daenerys Stormborn.” The man who spoke had fairer skin than his companions, and pale red hair. “The dragon queen. _ Mhysa. _”

“Then you know I keep no slaves.” She looked to Grey Worm. “Help them remove their collars and show them to a shelter. Those who wish it are to be given coin to remove any tattoos.” 

“Why do you do this?” Selah asked her, blue eyes still wary. 

“When I came to Pentos, I was no more free than you were,” Dany answered. “I was not a slave in name, but in truth. My brother sold me to _ Khal _ Drogo for an army. He had no right to sell me, and no one had a right to sell you either. Lives are not currency.”

~oOo~

Kinvara had taken her lovely Dothraki mare out not long after sunhigh. 

For days, Winterfell had been preparing for a blizzard, but none questioned her. It was common for highborn lords to ride out of the castle, whether on business or to distract from it. With her saddlebags hidden under her cloak, full of her meager possessions and supplies for the journey, the guards hardly gave her a second glance. 

In her time with Stannis’ camp, she had become rather fond of the Lady Stark, but Kinvara was not under the impression that the presence of R’hllor’s servants provided more than her uncle could. In truth, the girl was likely in better hands with the Blackfish than she had been since the death of her father. He had served his family loyalty these many long years, and he would care for her too, if he could. 

She had broken her fast with Sansa and her ladies that morning, listening to talk of Ironborn raiders and recovering keeps, and the quiet discussion between Sansa and Beth Cassel of their childhood days. Once they had finished the leek soup and bread, Sansa had excused herself to watch over the training yard where Rickon practiced with a number of Stormlord squires, and Kinvara had followed.

When she realized she had been followed, she had offered, as if by way of explanation, “Rickon says that Osha taught him to use the axe. The men have already had to ask me to request he be more careful with it in training.”

“An unconventional weapon for Lord Stark, perhaps, but that only means that no one will take it from him in battle,” Kinvara answered, “You owe no explanation, Lady Sansa. Few of us will find our lost family in these times.”

Sansa smiled at that, looking back to the yard. “I thought them all lost. To have Rickon and Jon back, it’s more than I could ever ask for.”

“Those we left with no farewell and those we left on ill terms are family still. You are greatly blessed, my Lady.” Kinvara said. Sansa had glanced at her, but made no question.

The Kingsroad stretched out long before her, through forest and tundra, to the causeway and Kings Landing. Out of sight of Winterfell, Kinvara nudged her mare into a trot, and kept a close eye on the road for fellow travellers.

~oOo~

Missandei’s welcoming committee was thus: four Unsullied, including Mossador and Grey Worm; a pair of knights, Ser Barristan with his queen and Jorah with his son in his arms; two Dothraki, Rakharo and Irri; Qezza of the Pyramid of Galare; a hovering Oberyn; and Daenerys wrapped in a pale dress, hands resting on her heavy belly. 

Once the swan ship was docked and the ramp prepared, Noho Dimittis was the first down. Oberyn left Dany with Mossador and went to greet him. The man smiled warmly and clasped his shoulder in greeting, only to watch as Dany all but ran past him to embrace Missandei as she descended from the ship after him.

When she let go, Missandei pulled back to look between them, hands on Dany’s upper arms as if she feared she would topple over. “You look wonderful, Your Grace.”

Dany was smiling so wide that it hurt her face as she took in her friend. Missandei wore a gown of dark brown and blue and gold, with long sleeves and several layers of skirts. It was in the style of Braavos, further north and colder than any of the other Free Cities, and it suited Missandei well. Perhaps it was ill-suited to Tyrosh, but that hardly mattered, Dany had a wardrobe she would gladly give to her if she liked. 

“As do you. We have missed you.” Above them, a loud trill cut through the sound of waves and shouting sailors. Drogon swooped over their heads, his massive black wings flapping lazily as he passed, his siblings close behind him. Rhaegal nipped at his sister’s neck as they flew, playing as they soared over the harbor. It had been nearly a month since Daenerys had left her manse, and the dragons were well-pleased to have free reign of the docks again. “All of us.”

Laughing, Missandei released Dany and hugged first Mossador, with whom she exchanged eager words in Naathi, and then Grey Worm, who stood still for a moment, before his hands came up to embrace her. Only then did she seem to remember the banker, who was waiting patiently beside Oberyn. Noho Dimittis was a short, stout man with a bristling white beard and a sense of quiet dectorum. “Your Grace, this is Noho Dimittis, a keyholder of the Iron Bank. He has come to represent the Bank and the Braavosi on your counsel.”

“Welcome to Tyrosh, Lord Noho.”

“The honor is mine, Daenerys Stormborn.” His smile was bright and true. “Braavos has fought for an end to the slavery that rose with the Ghiscari Empire and prospered under Old Valyria for a thousand years. And you and your dragons have brought it crashing down in under five. You will always be welcome in Braavos.”

“And you, my Lord, in my lands.” Dany was wrapped tightly around one of Missandei’s arms, Irri hovering at her side, watching her carefully. “Come and enjoy a meal with us, and meet my children, won’t you?”

The feast that had been laid out was fitting for guests of the queen. There were summer greens tossed with pecans, quails drowned in butter, olive bread, and sweet Naathi wine. Oberyn had bid Ellaria to send a nettle leaf tea to Daenerys from Dorne, and it was nearly all she drank this close to the birthing bed. Everything she drank made her stomach roll, but Oberyn insisted it was good for the baby, and she must drink something, so she kept it close.

While the main topic of interest was her dragons, once they were all settled at the table, Oberyn leaned near to Dany and asked Missandei across her shoulders, “is it true my daughter stayed in Braavos to be a courtesan?”

Missandei flushed, and the table quieted. The courtesans of Braavos were famed across the world. Singers sang of them, goldsmiths and jewelers showered them with gifts, craftsmen begged for the honour of their custom, merchant princes paid royal ransoms to have them on their arms at balls and feasts and mummers shows, and bravos slew each other in their names. One of the bastard daughters of Aegon IV had been a courtesan, and had been called the most beautiful woman in all the world. 

“Tyene was well-loved by Braavos when I left, and so chose to stay and speak for Her Grace,” Missandei answered.

“She was, also,” Lord Noho added, “quite the celebrated courtesan.”

Oberyn and Dany glanced at each other. It sounded as though it better suited Nymeria, but Tyene was clever and dangerous. She would not have stayed until she wished to. Under the table, Oberyn took her hand, smiling. “She will sleep on rose petals and wear silken skirts, and perhaps poison a man or two who take too many liberties. Have no fear for Tyene.”

“So long as she is happy, she has my blessing,” Dany assured him. Across from them, Nymeria was already prying secrets from the banker, laughing and smiling. 

He laughed at her words. “She is the bastard daughter of a second son. There is no need for her to do anything that makes her unhappy.”

~oOo~

For many weeks, Sansa had chosen to ignore Petyr’s messages.

The Red Priestess had been largely silent in confirming her suspicions, but from what Sansa could piece together he had tricked Lysa into killing her husband so he could marry her. Then, when she became inconvenient, he had killed her so he could control Robin. What she didn’t understand was why it had taken so long. The longer Petyr had control of the Vale, the better, yet Robin was three-and-ten, nearly a man grown. Why not ten years ago? Why not six years ago? He and Lysa could have wed and consummated the marriage before King Robert could have stopped them. There was something she was missing. It must have something to do with her mother, she thought, but what she did not know. Perhaps she would never know.

Sansa sat in her father's solar, the echoes of him pressed into the wooden desk and sharp quills. She read the letters he had received and never had a chance to answer. Many of those that had written them were dead now, fallen fighting by Robb's side. Fighting for Winterfell. Her family had struggled to survive against the Lannisters since they had come to Winterfell. Her parents had failed. Robb had failed. The burden fell on Sansa now.

It was by the king’s request that she answered now, but it was not for King Stannis’ sake that she wrote.

She had believed no one, not the king or his priestess or the wildlings, until her brother told her. Jon had recovered somewhat during his short time at Winterfell, although he was not the boy she remembered. Before he left he had sat down with her in the godswood and told her everything. Of the dead man that tried to kill the Lord Commander and had survived a sword to the chest. Of the horrors of the First of the First Men and his friend who killed a White Walker with a dagger. Of the dead things in the water as he and the wildlings fled Hardhome. Sansa had spent years in Kings Landing, where liars and turncoats ruled the court. There was something almost like relief at the thought of having an enemy who could not lie, and something like calm that filled her in the absolute horror of the White Walkers being more than myth.

For Jon she had gone to the king to tell him of Petyr’s offer of allegiance, and for Jon she now wrote to summon him. 

It was of promises and rewards she wrote. An offer the true king accepting Robin’s fealty was in ink on the page, an offer of her hand between the lines. She did not know if Petyr wanted it for himself or for Robin, but she knew that, in the end, there was no difference. He would take the North and the Vale if he could, all with only Lord Eddard’s daughter and a clever plan. Sansa thought he might take the throne as well, perhaps in her name if not in truth.

Still she penned the letter.

She owed Jon that much.

~oOo~

Long after the arrival of the Braavosi, Daenerys retired to her rooms. 

Of late she had spent much time sleeping next to Oberyn, just as she had stayed with Irri for time after the birth of her son. When Oberyn was not in her bed Qezza or Nymeria stayed with her. Qezza was thoughtful and polite, and while Nymeria was not a favored bedmaid, having someone with Dany calmed Oberyn and so she allowed it. It also made it so Dany could sleep, although she did not tell him that. Being alone set her nerves on end.

Tonight, though, Dany sent them all away. She curled up in a robe of Yi Ti silk and listened to Missandei tell other stories of Braavos. Those that would not interest a banker. Missandei told her of Braavosi swordsmen fighting in the honor of “The Dragon of Naath;” of beautiful courtesans inviting her onto their barges and claiming relation to her Dragon Queen; and of little markets that sold the most delicious foods in all the world. 

It was late into the night when Dany at last set aside the sweetwine and curled into the cool silks of her bed. She was nearly asleep when Missandei spoke. The Naathi woman’s voice was soft in the silence of the night. “There is… something else that I should tell you.”

“Something else?” Dany asked, already drowsy. “What is it?”

“When I was in Braavos I had a visitor to my manor.” Missandei was hesitant. She settled on the bed as she spoke, tugging the sheets over her. “A handsome man with a beard dyed blue in the Tyroshi style, although he was not Tyroshi. I cannot remember exactly what his face was like, only the beard. He had a message for the Dragon Queen. For you.”

“Was he a banker?” Dany rolled onto her back to look up at her. “What did he say?”

Missandei was staring off into the darkness of the room. It was too dark to make out her expression. “He said that he was from the House of Black and White, and that they had been asked to take a contract on you.”

“If the Faceless Men wanted me dead, I would be dead.” Viserys had spoken of them when they were younger. He had feared that Robert Baratheon would send one of the assassins after them, and remained convinced that it was only cost that stopped him. Dany had feared them more than the unknown Westerosi that might pursue them.

“He said that they had been asked, and they refused.” She eased herself down to face Dany in the darkness. “He said that they do not refuse. Any who can pay the price is accepted. The god of death does not discriminate.”

“Then why did they-”

Missandei cut her off, words a rush. As if she feared she would not start talking again if she stopped. “He said that the god of death refused to accept the contract, but he would not say how. Only that they knew he was displeased. That death had turned his face from you.”

Daenerys remembered a roaring pyre and dragonsong. The spectre of the Iron Throne and a cold blade. Death releasing her from his grasp and breathing back to life in the flames.

What god had saved her if not the god of death?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to have a total of four POVs in this fic, I think. Four is death, after all.


	68. Tyrosh XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My child,” she said, addressing Ser Jorah as the room suddenly filled with healers and midwives, all of whom fussed over her, “My daughter, where is she? I want her.”

Wings shadowed her fever dreams. 

“You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” 

She was walking down a long hall beneath high stone arches. She could not look behind her, must not look behind her. There was a door ahead of her, tiny with distance, but even from afar, she saw that it was painted red. She walked faster, and her bare feet left bloody footprints on the stone. 

“You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” 

She saw sunlight on the Dothraki sea, the living plain, rich with the smells of earth and death. Wind stirred the grasses, and they rippled like water. Drogo held her in strong arms, and his hand stroked her sex and opened her and woke that sweet wetness that was his alone, and the stars smiled down on them, stars in a daylight sky. “Home,” she whispered as he entered her and filled her with his seed, but suddenly the stars were gone, and across the blue sky swept the great wings, and the world took flame. 

“ ... don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” 

Ser Jorah’s face was drawn and sorrowful. “Rhaegar was the last dragon,” he told her. He warmed translucent hands over a glowing brazier where stone eggs smouldered red as coals. One moment he was there and the next he was fading, his flesh colorless, less substantial than the wind. “The last dragon,” he whispered, thin as a wisp, and was gone. She felt the dark behind her, and the red door seemed farther away than ever. 

“... don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” 

Viserys stood before her, screaming. “The dragon does not beg, slut. You do not command the dragon. I am the dragon, and I will be crowned.” The molten gold trickled down his face like wax, burning deep channels in his flesh. “I am the dragon and I will be crowned!” he shrieked, and his fingers snapped like snakes, biting at her nipples, pinching, twisting, even as his eyes burst and ran like jelly down seared and blackened cheeks. 

“ ... don’t want to wake the dragon”

The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness. She began to run.

“ ... don’t want to wake the dragon”

She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo’s copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. And he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash. She wept for her child, the promise of a sweet mouth on her breast, but her tears turned to steam as they touched her skin. 

“... want to wake the dragon…”

Ghosts lined the hallway, dressed in the faded raiment of kings. In their hands were swords of pale fire. They had hair of silver and hair of gold and hair of platinum white, and their eyes were opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade. “Faster,” they cried, “faster, faster.” She raced, her feet melting the stone wherever they touched. “Faster!” the ghosts cried as one, and she screamed and threw herself forward. A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew. 

“wake the dragon”

The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings. She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond that door, green fields and great stone houses and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door. 

“... the dragon…”

And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. “The last dragon,” Ser Jorah’s voice whispered faintly. “The last, the last.” Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.

“No,” she moaned, “no, please.”

“Dany?” Jhiqui hovered over her, wide-eyed and frightened. Flying, Dany thought. I had wings, I was flying. But it was only a dream. “Daenerys!” Her vision cleared, and Jhiqui’s gentle features were replaced with Oberyn’s sharp ones as he grasped her shoulders. Her stomach turned suddenly. Dany shoved him away with one hand, using the other to brace herself as she rolled to her side to vomit across the fine carpets. “What is it, what’s happened?” He demanded. 

When she thought she could speak without her stomach lurching again, she said, “I dreamed of Rhaego. Of the night of his birth.”

All of yesterday her back had ached to the extent that she had dismissed all responsibilities in favor of Irri pressing warm towels against her to ease the soreness. Daenerys had thought little of it, but it had made Oberyn anxious about her health. He had insisted on spending the night with her. Just now she was glad that he had. Now the backache had encircled her entirely, the soreness giving way to waves of cramping agony that left her gasping for breath. Sweat broke over her skin as she caught her breath. 

The bed moved with Oberyn’s weight, sending her stomach twisting again, but before he could do anything other than shift his legs over the side of the bed, the door was flung open by a pair of Unsullied guards brandishing spears. Not long behind was Ser Barristan. Looking about the room and seeing nothing, the knight asked sharply, “What is it? We heard Her Grace cry out.”

“She is having a baby, fool,” Oberyn snapped in return, already rushing around the bed to kneel next to her. “Send someone to bring the birthing women.” 

Just as suddenly as they had burst in, the knight fled the room. The Unsullied were not far behind, for although they were fearless soldiers they had little experience with the birthing bed. Dany thought she might have smiled at the thought of her men running from a baby, but Oberyn was frowning down at her as if something was wrong.

“Daenerys, look at me. Breathe with me.” His face swam before her, and her belly felt like her child had a blade in each hand and was cutting their way out of her. Dany stared at him, confused. It was Oberyn’s face she saw and his voice she heard, but she could not smell his sandalwood scent or the bright, fragrant perfume that the Tyroshi loved so that the entire manor smelled of.

Instead there was only the spiceflowers that Dany had brought from the Dothraki Sea and the earthy scent of horses. Someone cupped the side of her face, and Dany looked into dark eyes. Voice almost a whisper, a maegi spoke to her in a  _ khal’s _ tent. “This is bloodmagic, Silver Lady. Only death may pay for life."

She tore herself away, jolting back from gentle palms only to slam against the headboard of the bed. Oberyn was gone, but Irri was on the bed beside her. When Dany turned wide eyes to her, she touched her arm and soothed her. “Breath,  _ Khaleesi, _ it will be all right."

There were Essosi midwives at the end of the bed, their soft voices giving her instructions. A maester hovered at the side of the bed, watching the women work. Dany's stomach rippled with pain as she looked about her bedroom, and she braced herself against the wood behind her. For a moment, she closed her eyes to let the pain pass.

-

“Only death can pay for life.”

She was walking through the markets of Vaes Dothrak. At her side was a tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair. Beneath her feet, the ground was cold, and she wore a thick white pelt across her shoulders. Before her, the market bustled with life, herbs and spices, leather and horses all being sold in stalls. When she looked behind her, she could see only snow, her footprints alone stirring the unblemished drifts where she had passed.

“Only death can pay for life.”

She saw the Iron Throne, the walls and roof above it made whole once again. All around her, the walls were draped in Targaryen banners and great dragon skulls hung from every corner. Next to the throne was a girl in a dress of Westerosi make, black and white, the three-headed dragon quartered with a direwolf on a field. Her silver hair hung long behind her, and when she turned to look at the doorway where Dany stood her eyes were deep and grey.

-

"It's all right," Missandei pushed one of the midwives out from between Dany and the balcony, where Drogon had rested his front half so he could snake his neck inside. "He won't hurt her."

The women watched in horror as the massive dragon rested his head next to his mother on the bed, tilting his muzzle as he trilled low in his chest. Dany did not have the strength to turn her torso to touch him. It hurt too much. But she reached out a hand to the soft leathery skin of his nose and let his warm breath wash over her. It was enough.

Dany cried out again when another contraction started, and Irri shouted at the women from the other side of the bed. She had not moved as the dragon approached, as unafraid of him as Dany was. "Don't only stand there! Help her!" 

And the room stirred back into action.

-

“...death can pay for life.”

He looked as any Targaryen might, tall and elegant, with silver-blonde hair, but there was something familiar about the frozen tundra that surrounded his encampment. His black-stone fort stood alone, half-covered in ice and surrounded to north and south alike by armies. To the naked eye, those who stood on his battlements with him were well-armed knights, dressed all in black, but she had seen too many dead men to know otherwise.

“...death can pay for life.”

Strange, but beautiful, a shadow in woman’s form, her hands alive with pale white fire stood before a man fallen. Tall, she was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Her armor seemed to change color as she moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step she took on silent feet. She spoke in a language Dany did not know. The words were like the cracking of ice on a winter lake. 

-

She was standing at the end of her bed, elbows propped up on the sheets, head in her hands, rocking back and forth as a contraction rolled through her body. A long, low moan escaped her as she rocked. When the pain eased, Irri was on the bed in front of her, Drogon’s maw held tight against her chest to soothe him. “You’re doing well,  _ Khaleesi.” _ She promised.

At Dany’s right a midwife was kneeling, one hand on her extended belly, the other on her lower back. Dany did not recognize her immediately, but she trusted Irri. She trusted Drogon.

Another wave began, and Dany struggled to get the words out. “She’s coming.”

-

“...can pay for life.”

Cold and empty were the great corridors that surrounded her, the halls kept by silent statues. Eddard Stark’s face she saw, and his sister Lyanna’s. In the tomb that had been Rickon Stark’s lay a familiar face. Jon Snow’s corpse lay lifeless, the knife wounds in his torso dark red against the shockingly pale skin. A flame was lit deep within him, pouring into his body and warming the dead flesh to life. His eyes snapped open as she watched, and he took a great heaving breath as the flames consumed him. His eyes were not grey, but violet.

“...can pay for life.”

A dagger had cut through her flesh before, but it had not been like this. One of Dany’s hands sank to the sword, as it pierced through her chest. It began to glow as white as her hair, and the skin where it had touch froze to ice. Horrified, Dany struggled to free herself, but no matter how she turned the burning pain only deepened, and her body froze faster the more she moved. Once all of her had turned to ice, still breathing, she broke into a thousand pieces and fell.

-

Dany had one hand wrapped so tightly in Missandei’s that the scribe’s skin was turning white. The other gripped her bedpost to help her stay upright as she bore down against the pain. “I’m so sorry.” She said, between panting for breath. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

_ “Do not apologize,” _ Irri pressed a cold cloth to her forehead, using Drogon’s head above them for balance to dip it back into the baskin of water she had.  _ “Nothing is wrong.” _

Later, Dany would apologize to the midwife. All of them were speaking in their mother tongues, and the irritable dragon did not make it easier. The woman would only smile, and repeat what she said just now. “There is nothing to be sorry for. This is hard work.”

“I can’t push her out.” Dany gasped.

“You can.” The woman brushed silver hair from her face, and other hands caught it and tied it back. “You have every bit of the strength. You are mother to us all, and this little one as well. Breathe with me, dragonmother. Your body will tell you when to push.”

-

“...pay for life.”

The sound of a blade sliding through fabric and skin was too close to her, and Daenerys’ hands went to her abdomen to seek the dagger on instinct. Although her searching fingers found nothing, Dany’s horror was undimmed, the fear still thick in her throat. When she looked up she saw a woman fall forward in front of her, away from the man who had killed her.

She had no chance to decide what to do. As the Valyrian woman hit the floor there was a violent  _ crack _ that sounded like a boulder being flung through a wall if she had been standing underneath it. The entire hall went dark and men screamed. Dany was thrown to the floor by the violent shaking of the earth. When she pushed herself up to take in the burning black castle, neither the dead woman nor her murderer remained.

“...for life.”

At the edge of the world, a woman with silver-blonde hair looked out across the tundra from the top of the Wall. She wore only a simple gown with neither cloak nor furs to ward off the snow that fell over the crystal clear ice beneath her feet. Dany did not recognize the broken castle or the burned treeline, but when she stepped closer to the woman she thought she might know her. Her eyes were not the purple of the Valyrians, not in truth. They were brighter, had more pink in their shade than Dany’s own. 

When she glanced up from the frozen north and glanced back she looked at Dany, not through her. She stilled, frowning deeply. Then she reached out toward her, and called out.  _ “Muña?” _

“...life.”

The woman was gone, but in her place a hundred voices lifted up, a thousand, a hundred thousand, a hundred hundred thousand, all crying out.  _ Mhysa _ , they said, and  _ Zaldrīzotimuña _ .  _ Riña ōños _ and  _ Khaleesi Vizhadi _ and other names as well. Many she did not know, but all sang to her soul. She wanted to help them, she did. She would help them, she could, she knew their needs and their hurt, and she could save them! 

Above them all rose a single, clear tone. That of a child. 

_ “Muña!” s _ he said, voice high and sweet.  _ “Muña?” _

Daenerys knew her, although how she could not say. The girl was of an age with Dany herself when she had been sold to Drogo, with the same silver-gold hair and purple eyes, but her eyes were darker than Dany’s own and her skin olive brown. She associated a dragon with her, a blue with black claws, called by Daenys. Dany knew her, and yet she did not.

Who...

“ _ Muña,”  _ she said again, calling out in High Valyrian, “ _ jiōragon bē!” _

Dany opened her eyes.

She was still in her bedroom, but now the room was lit by the first rays of dawn, cool air filtering in. The bloody blankets had been carried off for cleaning and the maids had even removed the carpets on Dany’s side of the bed. In their place she was settled into clean silk sheets with a hrakkar skin draped over the foot of the bed.

Four Unsullied stood guard at the door, and Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah occupied either side of the front of her bed. Even so, Irri had sent in a number of Dothraki men from her  _ khas _ to guard her as well, and they gathered at the foot of the bed. When Daenerys stirred, Ser Jorah was beside her in an instant. Somewhere in the hall, she heard Missandei shout for the healer.

“My child,” she said, addressing Ser Jorah as the room suddenly filled with healers and midwives, all of whom fussed over her, “My daughter, Rhae, where is she? I want her.”

“Rhae.” The healers parted for Oberyn, Maester Myles from Sunspear hesitantly and the Tyroshi midwife with a smile. He carried in his arms a bundle wrapped in Ellaria’s blanket. When he leaned down to give her over to Dany, she accepted her carefully. She had never had the chance to hold her other children, but Oberyn’s hands were gentle as he guided the babe in her arms. “A fitting name for a Targaryen princess.”

“A queen.”

Daenerys had thought of many names, but she kept coming back to Rhae.

Elia’s daughter had been Rhaenys. So had the rightful heir of Jaehaerys I, his firstborn son’s only daughter, often called the Queen Who Never Was. The woman who should have been queen in Jaehaerys’ place, his elder sister Rhaena, shared the name as well. And Rhaenyra too, the first Targaryen woman to claim the throne. Dany looked down into her daughter’s face and smiled. Her ancestors had fought and died for a throne that their men did not consider them worth sitting, but Daenerys would make a queen of her. 

And a Seven Kingdoms worthy of her as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We only get one more Essos chapter!


End file.
